Tom Clancy's EndWar: The American Perspective
by Don113
Summary: This is the American version of WW3, and follows the soldiers of the 35th Airborne, Joint Strike Force.
1. Chapter 1: Invasion of Washington

EndWar story

For Colonel Jimmy Baker, USAF, there was no doubt that the F-22B Raptor was the sexiest fighter plane made by human hands. The Stealth Air Superiority Fighter's electronics had been upgraded from the F-22A that Baker had first flown, but for him it was still the same plane that had helped him and his pilots beat the ever loving shit out the PMC that had dared attack his nation. Now that that major conflict was over, there was still the problem of another, even larger conflict: World War III.

For political reasons that remained lost to Baker, the United States was now involved in a three-way war with the European Federation and the Russians. The War had started out well, as Baker recalled the successful sabotage of the EF's oil refineries by the United States' Joint Strike Force (his cousin, Sandy Baker, was flying the A-20 Razorback, the ground-attack version of the F-22, in support of the JSF). Now, the Euros had evidently decided that they had large enough balls to attempt an invasion of the American East Coast…specifically, Washington, DC.

Baker bristled at the very thought of Euros on home turf. A successful invasion of the US hadn't occurred since the War of 1812, more than two hundred years ago. That wouldn't change, as long as Baker could help it.

Baker's fighter was one of only four F-22s available in the area, since much of the USAF's F-22 fleet had taken a hit during the conflict with the PMCs. That meant that there were only seventy of the planes available to fly in the whole United States, and the rest were grounded with repairs. Former President Barack Obama had come under fire recently for limiting the number of Raptors, but his rather sensible response was that there had been no way for him to have foreseen another world war. The air defense of Washington was now primarily the responsibility of the Navy's F-35 Lightning IIs. Baker's mission was to divide his squad among air and ground targets.

"_Reaper Lead, be advised, two bogies headed your way,"_ said the operator of the AWACS quarterbacking the mission. Baker didn't acknowledge.

His F-22 did, in its own way. Within a few seconds the long range radar detected two blips headed towards the counter-attack being delivered by Colonel Jerome Taylor of the JSF's 35th Airborne. That had to mean that the two bogies were Eurofighter Hailstorms, the ground-attack version of the Eurofighter Typhoon. They were slow, which mean that they'd be easy kills.

Once Baker crossed within seventy-five miles, the range of the AIM-120D AMRAAM, he armed both missiles. The fighter's advanced computer locked onto both targets. "Fox Three, Fox Three, two missiles away," Baker said.

The two Hailstorms didn't react for a second, but then both broke off a bombing run that would have been sure to stop the 35th's momentum to try and evade the AMRAAMs. They did not, and Baker was now a double-ace, having bagged his ninth and tenth kill of his career. The previous eight had been a mix of MiGs and Sukhoi fighters belonging to the now-defunct Artemis Corporation.

Over the ocean, the Navy's single-engine pukes in their 35s (Baker thought of them as budget Raptors) were doing pretty well for flying fish, wrecking the Euros' fighters and bombers. The EF naval force that had supported the invasion was being surrounded and its ships were being sunk one by one by air attack, cruise missiles and sub-based torpedoes. For Baker, it meant that the two kills he had today were likely to be his last. Low on fuel, he made the decision to return to Andrews Air Force Base and left the job of killing the Euro crunchies on the ground to the A-20 drivers.

000

Master Chief Petty Officer Oliver Webb clutched his SCAR-A1 rifle tightly. A quick check confirmed that Sergeant Fred Harris and Sergeant Olivia Burke, his only two remaining squadmates, were with him. His squad had been decimated by an artillery strike, and he had no idea where the rest of Specter Company was. He'd managed to gather a few others from other companies. Sergeant Jimmy Cruz and Master Sergeant Harry Kowalski were from Killshot, and they, too had been separated from their parent company by an artillery strike. Corporal Jeffrey Wu was a Pioneer from Rachet, the last of his company. The twelve or so that had survived besides him had been evacuated, but Wu had insisted on staying behind since he was still capable of fighting. Webb was glad of Wu's presence, since the man packed an AT5CQ "Boomer" Rocket Launcher.

The rag-tag group of five Ghosts riflemen and one Pioneer engineer moved through the rubble of Washington DC. They were hunting for Euros, the men of the European Federation Enforcer Corp, which was the Euro's bastardized version of the JSF. Despite the disdain most JSF warriors felt for the EFEC, it couldn't be denied that the Euros' riflemen, the Kommandos, were competent bastards. Their armor was very fast, but that also meant that their armor was weaker than most, which also meant that any EFEC vehicle unlucky enough to catch Wu's attention would be Boomer bait.

However, while the Euros were definitely losing the naval battle to the far superior US Navy, they'd managed to stop the 35th's advance temporarily by crashing their communications. It had to be an enemy AWACS, which, unknown to Webb and his group, was being hunted for by USAF F-22s and F-35s. That was why the soldiers of Mob Squad (as Cruz had jokingly named the group) had no idea where their parent units were. For Webb, it didn't make a difference. Euros were on US soil, and he was going to hunt them.

Burke was on point, darting from one piece of rubble to the next, a talent which had led to her call-sign "Mongoose". She held up her hand in the universal gesture for 'danger ahead'. Mob Squad quickly found shelter in an abandoned bakery, hiding behind the counter.

Webb peeked over the edge to see what it was that Burke had spotted, but the rumble told him before he saw it. A single Panther 1A3 rumbled down the street, turret traversing left and right. Webb's spine chilled and he got down. The EFEC's Panther tank was a very formidable beast, and in the short time that it had taken for the JSF to get acquainted with it, it had garnered a very scary reputation.

Wu wasn't disturbed at all. In fact, he smiled. The APE-1A2 exoskeleton the Pioneer wore helped him heft his Boomer as if it was a paper weight. "Boomer time," Wu whispered.

"No," said Webb. "We don't know whether the bastard's got a sniper looking out for him. And their sniper rifles might be able to penetrate your armor."

Wu looked crestfallen, but didn't argue. Pioneers were pretty slow moving because of the weight they carried, and the Battle of Copenhagen had showed that they were vulnerable to snipers.

Burke opened the counter's door to peer through the glass of the display case. She stole a quick glance at the bakery items still there. "Oh, what I'd give for a brownie…" She trailed off, watching the Panther come back. The tank maneuvered into a position facing east, towards the EFEC landing beach. It backed up into another store, crushing the brick wall, until only the tip of the barrel could be seen. "Ah ha! The son of a bitch is waiting in ambush. He's waiting for one of our tanks to pass."

"So he can shoot it in the ass," Webb nodded. He couldn't let that happen, could he? But the enemy tank was not in the best position for Wu to kill it. There had to be a way to coax it out.

"Contact," said Kowalski, who was looking west for any sign of friendly units. "Friendly tank, coming up."

Webb crawled over to where Kowalski was and looked for himself. A US Army M1A2 Abrams was rumbling up the street, turret traversing left and right, searching for targets. The Abrams was a good tank, but it wasn't as good as the newer M5A2 Schwarzkopf, and not a match for the Panther in a one-on-one engagement. "We have to warn him," said Webb. "Squad, stay here."

"Wait!" said Sergeant Harris, but Webb ignored him.

Webb boldly walked out into the street, waving at the Abrams. The position of the Panther meant that the enemy tank couldn't see him, but the Abrams definitely could. It came to a stop, and the tank commander opened the hatch. "What the…what the hell is a Ghost doing here?" the man demanded.

"There's an ambush," Webb began.

000

_Oberfeldwebel_ (Master Sergeant) Christian Weber peered through the scope of his JO-2 Sniper Rifle. He had been watching the enemy Abrams roll down the street, reporting its presence to the Panther tank that had deposited him next to the building he was in only minutes before. The Panther was in an optimal position to shoot the American in the _arschloch_. The destruction of the vaunted Abrams was doubtless going to be pleasing, Weber had thought.

And then the _Amerikaner_ soldier had waltzed right in front of the Abrams and waved it down to a halt. Weber had cursed quietly to himself, saying things that would have shocked his orthodox Christian father. A few seconds later, and the American would have been looking at a smoldering pile of scrap. Now the ambush was ruined, and Weber, as much as he wanted to, couldn't shoot the soldier for fear of giving away his position. A sniper doesn't waste ammo on a simple foot-soldier.

But then the enemy tank commander had popped up.

A quick glance confirmed that this man was a captain. That would be a prize, Weber was sure. If he managed to shoot the man, it would be his highest-ranking kill for him in the war so far. He decided it was worth the risk. He aimed, exhaled…

000

"What?" asked the tank commander.

"A Panther is waiting just round the corner," said Webb, pointing.

The tank commander leaned forward, trying to see what Webb was pointing at, realizing seconds later that leaning over saved his life.

_Ping!_

Webb recognized the report of the sniper rifle, and so did the tank commander, who dived back into his hatch faster than a rabbit. Webb dashed behind the tank, the vehicle providing him cover.

000

Weber cursed. Bad luck, bad fucking luck. The kill had been a sure one, but Fate had saved the enemy's life. It wouldn't have been so bad it he'd been able to get the soldier who'd ruined everything, but the _Amerikaner_ had wisely gone for cover behind the tank, and Weber's second shot had missed. Seconds later, he realized that he shouldn't have taken the second shot.

The Abram's turret swiveled and fired. Weber couldn't even blink before the collapsing rubble killed him. His rifle flew from his grip as he died, flipping end over end.

000

Webb saw the JO-2 clatter to the street, and saw that his suspicion about snipers had indeed been right. "Good night, Euro scumbag," he said. Then he turned around to see that Cruz had followed him out and was watching the rubble with satisfaction.

"Hey Chief, look," Cruz said. "French Fries!" He laughed as if he'd said the best joke ever.

"Not all Euros are French, Jimmy," said Webb. "Might've been Cooked Kraut for all we know."

Jimmy howled at that one, proving that he had a bad sense of humor. Then he peeked round the corner. "Oh shit, man, here he comes…"

The Panther crew had obviously seen the sniper getting killed, and decided not to wait for the Abrams. It crunched its way out of its hole, turning to go down the street. Considering Euro technology and training, it was very likely that the Panther would get off the first shot and possibly disable the Abrams, if not kill it. Remembering that the strength of American tanks is range, the Abrams commander told Webb and Cruz to move so he could back up.

The Panther was just too quick. Before the Abrams had gotten far, the Panther was already there. The Abrams fired first, testament to the training of US tank crews, but the HEAT round missed, and Webb waited for the Abrams to die.

_Woosh-BOOM!_

Webb opened his eyes to see the Abrams still intact and the Panther smoking, and realized he'd forgotten about Wu. The Pioneer had put a rocket right into the turret of the Euro tank, and the turret couldn't traverse.

The Abrams commander quickly took advantage of this welcome development. Another HEAT round was fired, this time on target. The round must've hit a sweet spot, because the turret flew up into the air in what the Army called a "catastrophic kill", crashing back down on the ruined chassis of the Panther.

'Mob Squad' and two soldiers from the Abrams approached the Panther's wreckage, rifles up and ready, but it was already apparent to Webb that none of the Euros had survived. A piece of uniform, burnt and blood-stained, caught Cruz's eye, and he looked at the nametag.

" 'Foch'," Cruz read. "Looks like this one is definitely a box of French Fries."

"Yee-haw!" whooped one of the Abrams crewmen. "You Euros see that?" he shouted in the general direction of the EFEC camp. "Y'all try to mess with us, y'all end up like these fellers here!"

"Mob Squad!" Harris shouted, showing that Cruz had won at least one convert. "Nice shooting there, Wu."

"Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy," said Wu dismissively, although he wore a very elated expression. "Those Euro douche-bags didn't have a chance. Not when a rocket hits them, and especially not if a fucking Abrams steals my kill."

The Abrams commander laughed at that, sitting atop his tank. "You're welcome. Ah, what the hell. Beers on me."

Wu narrowed his eyes. "Free?"

"Free."

Wu shrugged. "I guess that settles that," he said.

Just then, Webb's COM crackled, telling him also that the Air Force had splashed the enemy AWACS. _"Heads up. Friendlies coming up."_

The rumble told Webb it was another tank, but it was the infantry that appeared first. Ghosts, to be exact. They were escorting four M5A2 Schwarzkopf tanks. The Abrams paled in comparison to its more robust successor, but the Schwarzkopf was a lot more expensive, and that meant that it was a JSF-exclusive tank, which also meant that the Abrams still had a future with the Army and the Marine Corp.

One of the infantry men looked at Mob Squad. "Kowalski? Cruz? Man, I thought you two were dead."

"Captain?" Cruz asked, eyes widening with wonder.

"Of course I am," the man said irritably. "Thank god you're alive. Sorry about your squad."

Cruz looked down, having no snappy reply for once.

Webb saluted. "Master Chief Petty Officer Oliver Webb, sir. Specter Company."

"Specter?" the captain repeated. "Specter? You guys are supposed to be on the other side of town! How the hell did you get here?"

"No fucking clue, sir. A lot of smoke, and that damn jamming. I guess we owe the Air Force for that one."

"I guess," the captain agreed. "You guys can come with us. We're closing in on the EFEC landing zone. The battle's over, gentlemen. Washington DC is still ours, and the Stars and Stripes still fly on US soil."

"Oorah," said Harris, a former Marine.

"Oorah," the captain echoed. Harris smiled as he saw a brother Marine.

"Force Recon, sir?"

"Yep. Best time of my life until General Mitchell thought of this Joint Strike Force thing. For an Army puke, he ain't bad."

"Hey!" said the Abrams commander. "Watch what you say 'bout the Army, jarhead!"

The captain waved back good naturedly as the infantry/tank column advanced. The Abrams disappeared as it drove off to find its parent unit, never to be seen again by Webb or any other Mob Squad member.

Webb, for his part, was elated. The Euros had made a gamble and lost, and the first major battle of World War Three was an American victory. But he wondered what was next, and who would eventually win the war. Right now, it looked like it could go any way.

00000


	2. Chapter 2: Maneuvers

Chapter 2: Maneuvers

In Paris, Nathalie Perreau, President of the European Federation, looked with sadness at the report on her desk. "So many lost…for such a risk," she said. The whole operation had been based on the fact that while the US military would fight fiercely, they wouldn't use WMDs for fear of public backlash. But it had appeared that the Americans weren't as squeamish about using WMDs on US soil as everyone had thought, and three of their Kinetic Rods had smashed the EFEC invasion force before the latter had gotten close enough to the city to prevent the Americans from striking again.

General Amadou de Bankole, the commander of the EFEC, tried to make his president feel better. "It was worth the risk," he said. "Our intelligence said that President Becerra was still in Washington during the assault. If we had managed to capture him, we might have ended the war early. In fact, one of my colonels had managed to come within two miles of the White House."

"But we failed," Perreau reminded him. "Becerra is still the President of the United States"—she practically spat the name of the enemy nation—"and our naval forces have been decimated. What is to stop the Americans from invading us? Not to mention the Russian invasion of Poland." For Perreau, Russia was the main enemy. She particularly despised the Russian President, Vsevolod Vsevolofovich Kapalkin, a former mob boss and smuggler with connections to Russia's oil industry.

General de Bankole was not so sure. "We have showed the world that America is not as impregnable as she claimed to be. We have left Washington DC in ruins. Even now, the Russians are attempting an invasion of the US through Canada."

"That is a violation of Canadian air space," said another general, the commander of the European Army. "And we must remember that the Canadians are still loyal to the British Crown. It is possible that the Canadians and the British will enter the war against Russia on the American side, and therefore both nations will be hostile to us."

"The British are neutral," de Bankole pointed out. "And they have allowed us to place vital uplink nodes on their soil."

"Not anymore," said Perreau, reading a new communiqué from her computer. "There are new reports from the United Kingdom. Our forces have been prevented from entering the uplink sites by British Army units, and their Prime Minister has demanded that European forces leave immediately."

"What?" exclaimed the Army commander. "Without those nodes, we will not be able to use our laser satellites if the Americans invade Normandy!"

"It is highly unlikely that the Americans will invade Normandy," said de Bankole calmly. "They usually don't do the same thing twice. I believe that they will invade through Spain."

"Perhaps," admitted the Army commander, "But we cannot risk it. The destruction of our Atlantic Fleet is bad enough. Now the Royal Navy might be used against us. I say we invade the UK and retake control of the nodes by force."

"Invade a neutral country?" de Bankole was stunned. "We have enough trouble with the Russians and the Americans without having to add the British to our plate! Not to mention that the British homeland has never been invaded successfully since William the Conqueror."

"Indeed," scoffed the Army commander. "And America hasn't been invaded since 1812. That is, until now."

"And we failed," de Bankole reminded him, even though that rankled. "We don't have a right to invade a neutral nation."

"The British have clearly sided with the Americans," said the Army commander. "They are no longer neutral."

"I agree," said Perreau, even as de Bankole turned a stunned look towards her. "We cannot allow the Americans to use the United Kingdom as a base of operations against the European homeland. General de Bankole, prepare plans for an invasion of Britain. General Val Jean"—this was to the Army Commander—"make similar arrangements, plus arrangements for the post-invasion occupation of Britain."

"At once, Madame President," both men said. Val Jean looked smug, but de Bankole was not as happy. Sure, the arrogant British needed to be taught a lesson, but not when two super-powers were menacing Europa from east and west. It would divert vital resources and weaken his nation's defenses. But he was a soldier, and he had his orders. And he would also make sure that the Americans and Russians paid dearly for every millimeter of European soil.

Unknown to any of them, this conversation had not been private. Back when Paris had been the capital of France and not of Europe, a British spy in the French government had managed to place a bug in the President's office. The information thus gained was supposed to be used to gain the upper hand when dealing with France, but no one in the British government would have expected to hear what they had just heard.

000

General Scott Mitchell, Commanding Officer of the United States Joint Strike Force, stared at a map of Europe as if answers would be forthcoming from the holographic projection. It hadn't been too long ago that he'd been Captain Scott Mitchell, Alpha Squad, Ghost Recon. After the debacle in Mexico and the ruckus caused by the Artemis Corporation, his career had been fast-tracked, most certainly by his former boss, General Keating, US Army. Keating was now a four-star, still superior to Mitchell who held the rank of a three-star Lieutenant General. Mitchell was still stunned by how fast he'd risen through the ranks. It seemed like only yesterday he'd been a Major, still stubbornly going out into the field, fighting private military contractors on US soil. Of course, he couldn't do that anymore. So a still-young Mitchell (who regularly dyed his hair so as not to look old) was now the commander of a brand new unit. He had to owe it to Keating, who'd gone the extra mile to ensure the creation of the JSF. In fact, it had been such a great idea that the Euros had taken the idea for themselves and based the EFEC on both the JSF and the now-defunct NATO counter-terror team Rainbow. The Russians, on the other hand, simply reorganized their Spetsnaz Guard Brigade in a similar fashion.

The Situation Room in the White House seemed less secure to everyone now that half of DC was still burning, but otherwise it remained unchanged, unless one noted the sudden increase of agents of the United States Secret Service. President Becerra seemed unaffected. He was a strong president, which Mitchell liked. He alone of everyone in the room was calm.

"Well," the President began, "where do we stand?"

Since JSF units had spearheaded the US counter-attack against the EF invasion, Mitchell had to speak. "DC is secure, Mr. President. We've captured several hundred European soldiers, along with a lot of top-of-the-line Enforcer Corp equipment. This attempted invasion of theirs went pretty bad for them, I'd say. I doubt they'll try another invasion any time soon."

"What's the status of Grissom Air Base, General Hayworth?"

The Air Force general cleared his throat. "Our birds killed most of their transports with Canadian help, and the Russians who managed to make it to Grissom were quickly overwhelmed by base security. US soil is secure, Mr. President."

"How's the west coast?"

"Quiet, for now," said the commander of the US Pacific Fleet. "The Chinese are remaining fiercely neutral. My sub commander thinks that the Russians might try to act up there, so his boats are hunting for their attack boats and especially their boomers. Their navy isn't too bad, Mr. President, but they just can't project force the way we can. The Japanese are being very helpful, too."

"Alright, so Europe is our focus for now," said Becerra. "General Mitchell, how do you propose invading Europe?"

"If the Brits weren't neutral, I'd say we invade Normandy again and drive for Paris," said Mitchell, "But that might end up for us just like DC ended up for the Euros. Looks like Spain is the best candidate."

"I agree," said Admiral Stanforth, commander of the US Atlantic Fleet. "Spain isn't heavily defended, and since we decimated their fleet, we should be able to land troops without any problems. Martin?"

General Sam Martin, commandant of the Marine Corp, nodded. "My boys will be able to secure a solid beachhead before the Euros know what hit 'em. If we secure the coast, Mitchell's troops will be able to go in and kick 'em where it hurts. Right, son?"

Mitchell bristled slightly at being addressed as 'son', but put that aside like the semantic it was. "Damn right, General. We'll have to move quickly, though. The JSF will have to move as soon as the Marines have secured the beachhead and the surrounding area. I suggest La Mancha."

"La Mancha?" repeated Becerra.

"They have uplink nodes vital to their communications and other functions," Mitchell explained. "Le Ceito Army Base should also be a priority target. If those places can be taken successfully, Spain is ours for the taking."

"I see." Becerra turned to the rest of the Joint Chiefs. "Well gentlemen? Does General Mitchell's plan have merit?"

"I believe so, Mr. President," said General Keating, whose statement was accompanied by several nods.

"What do we call this?" asked Admiral Stanforth.

"How about…Operation: Tropic Thunder?" Keating had actually disliked the movie, but that was all he could think of at the moment.

Stanforth grinned. "Sounds good to me, as long as Hollywood doesn't sue us."

000

The Prime Minister of Great Britain was a very harried man. He'd been weathering accusations of appeasement by pro-US politicians who were also anti-EF. Edward Cunningham resented being labeled as 'this generation's Neville Chamberlain', mostly because the comparison was not at all related to the situation he was in, but also because he didn't want to live with that label. While he himself had been pro-EF like his party, he certainly wasn't anti-US like the latter thought. In fact, he'd hoped to have ties with both the EF and the US, and so create an alliance between the two. It had worked at first. The historic SLAMS treaty had been signed in London between the two powers, and their combined power had helped keep the increasingly powerful Russian Federation in check. But then the horrific terrorist attack in Saudi Arabia had driven up oil to USD 800 per barrel, the European Union had transformed into the European Federation, and Ireland had merged with the United Kingdom to form the 'New Commonwealth', a move deeply unpopular in Ireland. Russia's oil fields gave her new wealth and power, and the EF saw US power as a threat to its own. Then, the US, most likely in reaction to the growing power of both the Russians and the EF, announced plans to build the Freedom Star, a military space station capable of deploying US troops anywhere in the world in ninety minutes. It would have allowed the US keep its position as the world's greatest superpower, a role it had held since the end of World War Two. The EF had withdrawn in protest, ending the existence of the already-fractured NATO.

Things had just gotten worse when the 'Forgotten Army', a collection of soldiers from failed states from around the world, launched terrorist attacks on US, EF and Russian soil. In fact, an attack by the terrorists on the JFK Space Center had prevented the final module of the Freedom Star from being launched into orbit. Then the US really screwed things up when they attempted to capture the EF's Defense Minister, and actually sent armed troops to extract the team that had tried to capture him. The EF won the Battle of Copenhagen, forcing US troops to hand over the Minister in exchange for safe passage home. Cunningham made a last-ditch attempt to secure peace by holding talks in London, even as the last module of the Freedom Star was about to be launched again. But then the EF satellite had shot down the shuttle. The US had claimed it as deliberate, while the EF called it an accident and claimed sabotage. But the truth no longer mattered; the US declared war on the EF. Russia did as well, claiming to liberate the Eastern European countries, but the US apparently saw through the thinly-veiled attempt at conquest and declared war on Russia as well.

The events were highly unfortunate, but that did not meant that they were all Cunningham's fault, nor did he believe he could have prevented it anyway. Now he was committed to keeping the UK neutral, even if that meant kicking the Europeans out and preventing them from using his country's uplink network. The EF's President, Nathalie Perreau, was upset about that, but Cunningham refused to budge. It was true that without the uplink network of his nation, Paris would be exposed, but that wasn't his nation's problem.

A knock came on the door of Cunningham's office. An agent of the DPG, the British equivalent of the Secret Service, opened it. It was his National Security Advisor, Arthur Pendleton.

"Ah, Arthur," said Cunningham pleasantly. "What do you have for me today?"

Pendleton looked like he hadn't slept for days. "The Europeans plan to invade us."

Time seemed to slow down, and Cunningham felt like he had trouble breathing. Then the words finally made it through to his brain. "What?"

"SIS"—Pendleton referred to the Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes erroneously called MI6—"have a source placed in Paris. The plan to invade us was made shortly after they received our notice that we were removing their troops from British soil."

Cunningham flopped into a seat. "Bugger. As if we don't have enough trouble with the bloody Russians…"

As had been predicted, the UK and Canada had declared war on Russia for violating Canadian airspace; the Russians had tried to invade the US from the north, but failed thanks to the combined efforts of the Canadian Air Force and its US counterpart. Now, Royal Navy submarines were hunting for Russian subs, and his Naval commander had reported that at least two Orlov-Class attack subs had been sunk, as opposed to only one by the US Navy.

Several minutes later, the highest ranking officers were assembled at Downing Street. They received orders to prepare against invasion. The military went on high alert. Royal Air Force Eurofighter Typhoons and Tornados took off to the skies, and E-3 Sentry AEW1 AWACS planes monitored UK airspace. British Army troops prepared hasty fortifications of the beaches. The Royal Navy, the most powerful arm of the UK, increased patrols in the English Channel. The United Kingdom waited for the hammer-stroke to fall, but all agreed that no mainland Euro was going to set foot on British soil.

000

"Mr. President? A man from the NSA is here to see you."

Becerra nodded, and welcomed in Director of Third Echelon Sam Fisher. Fisher's organization was run by the National Security Agency and technically did not exist. It sent highly trained agents, called Splinter Cells, to places all over the world to gather intelligence and, if necessary, kill. Fisher himself had been a Splinter Cell, arguably the agency's best. A series of events that Becerra didn't have clearance to had ended up with Fisher as head of a disorganized Third Echelon. He'd whipped it back into shape, and now 3E, as some called it, was better than ever before.

"So Sam," Becerra began, "Is it true that the Euros plan to invade the United Kingdom?"

"Yes," said Fisher. "They think we might do a Saving Private Ryan on them and storm Normandy beach if they don't have those uplink sites."

"Jesus," whispered POTUS. "They really think we're that stupid?"

"Yes, Mr. President. President Perreau hates your guts. Maybe it makes her feel better to think you're stupid."

Becerra sighed. "What the hell did I do to that woman? It's not like the Freedom Star was made just to insult her. We needed to restore the balance of power."

Fisher said nothing. Politics meant jack shit to him personally, although he understood their effect on the actions of a person. He stood silently as POTUS defended himself. He was rather surprised to find that he missed being in the field, wearing the old suit and the three-lens goggles, even though he'd hated the suit.

"Well, we'll just have to wait for the Brits to ask for our help," Becerra said. "Though I doubt it'll take them long. What about the new Russian tank?"

"It's called the Ogre," said Fisher, reciting his agent's report from memory. "Official designation is T-100. Apparently the Russians don't have good mine-sweeping software, so they armored the suckers. That makes them slow, but also nearly indestructible. Their main weapon is a 125mm smoothbore that has our Schwarzkopf tanks beat in raw firepower. This thing will be to us what the Tiger tank was to the AEF in World War Two. Only chance to beat it is to use air support or mass our M5A2s against them. Luckily for us, the thing is madly expensive, even more than the Schwarzkopf, and it guzzles fuel like a hooker guzzles…well, it consumes fuel at a massive rate. Also, it seems that the extreme weight of the gun barrel negatively affects the speed at which the turret traverses. The range is actually a lot less than ours and the Euros'.

"I see. Pass that on to JCOS and JSF, will you?"

"Been there, done that, Mr. President," said Fisher. "They've already worked out a strategy to kill these new beasts."

"OK."

Fisher hesitated before going on. "Mr. President, the Brits have been very generous to us in revealing how they got their information. They'll want something in return. Do we give them access to our sources, or do we give them something else?"

Becerra sat back. "I'm not willing to give away sources just yet. I'll send a military force." With that, POTUS called the commander of the Atlantic Fleet. For Fisher's benefit, the conversation was on speaker.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"The Brits have given us something good Charlie, so I want to give them something in return. What's the readiness of the Ryan battlegroup?" The John Patrick Ryan was one of the new Reagan-Class super-carriers, ships that dwarfed even the Ford-Class carriers, which were still in service.

"They tasted blood off of Maryland, and they're hungry for more," replied Admiral Charlie Davenport. "They're ready as the can be."

"OK, dispatch the Ryan battlegroup to the North Atlantic. I believe the Brits could use the extra fighters." Anyone who'd read a history book knew that the RAF had single-handedly prevented German control of the skies over Britain during the Second World War, but most books glossed over the fact that the Brits did so by the skin of their teeth.

"They will, sir. Davenport out."

Fisher turned to leave, thinking that this conversation was over, but the President said, "Sam, a moment."

Fisher turned. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"If the Brits have a source in Paris, I want one in the Kremlin. Can you make that a possibility?"

"The Kremlin?" Fisher shook his head. "Not sure, probably not. If it can be done, it'll be pretty risky. The Russians are notoriously paranoid."

"Try, all the same. I understand that we can't recruit an insider, but we still can plant a bug, right?"

"Like I said, sir, I don't think it's possible," Fisher replied. "The info on the T-100 was obtained by an agent of mine who risked her life just to download the files. Getting in on what Kapalkin is saying will be exponentially harder. But I will try, sir. Just don't expect a miracle."

000

"Our spies report that the John Patrick Ryan battle group has left Norfolk," said General de Bankole. "They do not know where they are headed, but it is a safe guess that the Ryan is sailing to aid Britain."

"Faster than I expected," said President Perreau. "I assume they will sail for the North Atlantic?"

"It is very likely," said de Bankole.

"I agree," said Admiral de Guerre, the commander of the naval forces of the European Federation. It looked like he hadn't slept for quite a while, and de Bankole understood. The loss of almost the entire European Atlantic Fleet was quite a blow, and the remnants were holed up in the Mediterranean Sea, unwilling and unable to challenge the US Navy's Atlantic Fleet. Ship yards in the south of France were busy at work creating new ships to replace the ones lost off of the American East Coast, but they wouldn't be completed for months, during which time the only challenge to the Americans would be the Russian Navy. While de Guerre wouldn't mind seeing the Russians tear the US fleet apart, he knew that if that happened he'd then have to deal with the Russians. "They will move north to challenge the Russian Navy. I assume the Royal Navy will stay to protect their homeland."

"Madame," said Eric Muller, the head of the European Federation Intelligence Agency, stood up. "There is a problem with Operation Seahorse." He referred to the planned invasion of Britain.

"Yes?" asked Perreau.

"The British military has suddenly gone on high alert. Civilians have been herded away from the beaches and the Royal Air Force has put more fighters into the sky. The Royal Navy has put out to sea. It is possible, however unlikely, that they already know we're coming for them."

"Preposterous," scoffed General Val Jean. "The Brits may be good, but they aren't that good. This increased readiness is probably a response to Russia."

"We have to consider the possibility," Muller insisted. "I say call off the invasion. If they know we are coming, then many Europeans will die from prepared British defenses."

"They don't know," Val Jean said. "The only people who know of the full scope of Operation Seahorse are in this room. I doubt that there is a traitor among us."

"Those uplink sites are essential to the defense of the capital," said de Guerre. "We can't avoid an invasion even if we wanted to."

General de Bankole tried once again for reason. "You know who they will call for help when we start our attack."

"The Americans?" de Guerre looked incredulous. "I think you overestimate their chances, Amadou."

"And you underestimate their resolve," de Bankole shot back. "The Americans have shown that they are willing to use WMDs on their own territory. Who knows what they will do next?"

"You talk about an invasion of Europe by the Americans," said Val Jean. It wasn't a question. "Fear not. The quickest way to Paris for them is to use Britain as a launching point, same as they did in 1944. That won't happen if we control Britain."

"I hope it is as easy as you say," de Bankole said.

000

General Scott Mitchell returned the young man's salute. At thirty-five, Colonel Jerome Taylor was quite young for his rank, but he acted like the full Colonel he was. "Colonel Taylor. Nice to see you. Damn good job in DC."

"Thank you, sir," said Taylor. He'd been Captain Taylor once, had been the leader of Ghost Team Delta. Then Ghost Recon had been folded into—no, expanded into what was now the JSF. He didn't mind, always believing that he could do a better job than the REMFs that got them into this war in the first place.

Mitchell turned. "Major Dennison? Fill the Colonel in."

Major Alice Dennison was part of Mitchell's staff and acted as the Executive Officer to any Colonel he assigned her to. In this case, it was Taylor. He didn't mind; the stunning red-head caught attention wherever she went, and some of Taylor's fellow Colonels had tried to get her onto their staff, both for her looks as well as her efficiency and intelligence. "Gladly, General," said Dennison, in reply to Mitchell. She tapped a button on the conference table in the middle of a room deep in the bowels of the USS Kunar. "Arrabida, Portugal. We need to secure this area in order for our troops to land on the beach. You'll have to come in by air. The enemy will have both EFEC and regular army units defending the town."

"Who's commanding them?" Taylor asked.

"Mark Haider," said General Mitchell. "He isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. More like just a tool, and probably asking for directions to the shed. You shouldn't have too much trouble with him."

"Why, sir?"

"Haider was an OK officer, but he let his personal political views dictate his actions. That led to people getting killed. No reason to suspect why he'd be any different. So Colonel, how do you plan to deploy?"

Taylor looked at the map and zoomed in on a small town close to the shore, the aforementioned Arrabida. "This group of uplinks here should be our target. They provide an integral part of aerospace defense for the entire Iberian Peninsula. If it goes down, the Euros won't be able to coordinate fighters over the peninsula. As to how I deploy my forces…Major? What do you think?"

Dennison blinked, not expecting this, but once she realized that both General Mitchell and Colonel Taylor were waiting for her to prove that she was more than good looks, she cleared her throat and looked at the map. "We'll be assaulting by air. Deploying infantry first to secure uplinks Alpha, Zulu and Bravo will ensure that we have a clear line of advance. The enemy will most likely be in control of Delta, so Alpha will have to be reinforced first; they'll receive the brunt of the enemy counter attack. While the enemy focuses on Alpha, we send in a group of Ghosts to Sierra via the DAP version of the V-25." She referred to the Direct Action Penetrator variant of the V-25 Goshawk. "Once Sierra is secure, we send in additional troops and armor overland to reinforce it. Then we'll take Foxtrot and hit their flank. By this time we should have enough uplinks to wreck their communications."

"After which cleaning them out will be child's play," Taylor finished. "I like it. General?"

Mitchell nodded. "So do I. You have three days before the battle group is in position to launch the assault. Get to it, people."

000

Admiral Francois de Guerre had a lot on his mind, but not much to do other than deploy his few submarines to harass US shipping and wait for the new ships to be completed. Morale had plummeted, and he himself was hard pressed to see any bright light at the end of what looked to be a very long tunnel. The European Atlantic Fleet, once the French Navy, simply was not in any shape to openly challenge the US Navy, let alone the Royal Navy, the latter of which de Guerre deemed superior. Until then, the small hunter sub fleet which had emerged from the Battle of Washington DC relatively intact, was charged with performing hit-and-run attacks on military vessels and cargo ships flying the US flag, as well as trying to spy on the US Navy. It was a losing battle; the Americans had learned the hard way during World War Two that convoys of supply ships were highly vulnerable to submarine attack, and so merchant ships were now accompanied by Virginia-Class hunter subs and were covered by anti-submarine aircraft when in the vicinity of the US coast. Even though submarines of the European Navy had managed to kill three merchant vessels, two of the three European subs had then died quite suddenly by a retaliating Virginia. The one that escaped intact, Suffren, had then been depth-charged by US Navy helicopters. Scuttled off of Florida, the crew was currently being held somewhere in the US. The remaining subs, _Duquesne_, _Tourville_ and _De Grasse_, were now ordered to observe and only attack if detected and/or if a target of opportunity arrived. A carrier would be a primary target, since the loss of even one would be a major loss for the US Navy. Currently, the older Rubis-Class attack submarines were being reactivated because of the losses off of the US coast. However, they were somewhat noisier than their Barracuda-Class descendants.

A knock came on the door, and a lieutenant came in with a dispatch. "Admiral, the De Grasse reports that the Ryan battle group seems to be smaller than it was when it left Norfolk. Some ships are missing, particularly the Arizona." The Arizona was a Gerald R. Ford-Class aircraft carrier, the forerunner of the current Reagan-Class super-carrier. Able to carry at least 75 aircraft, the Arizona was a considerable threat, and the fact that its whereabouts were unknown troubled de Guerre.

"Find out where they are," said de Guerre.

000

At 3:00 AM local time, the Arizona task force arrived at the position for the assault on Arrabida. From the America-Class amphibious assault ship USS Kunar, four V-25 Goshawks and eight V-120 Valkyries lifted off and headed east, carrying with them the armor and the elite troopers of the 35th Airborne Division. Soon, the enemy would know why the division's motto was 'Death from Above', and there would be no stopping them.

00000


	3. Chapter 3: Iberian Peninsula

Master Chief Petty Officer Oliver Webb sat back and tried to relax. The V-25 Goshawk was a tilt-rotor aircraft, the direct descendent of the Marine Corp's V-22 Osprey. It was designed for transporting a company of Ghosts, but not for creature comforts, and so Webb's attempt to relax didn't work. So, instead of trying to get in the rest he needed, he observed the members of his new company, Creeper.

As it turned out, the Euros had tried desperately to hold on to the beachhead nearly a hundred air miles east of Washington, a last stand. They managed to inflict several casualties on the 35th before they surrendered, and two companies in particular were hit hard: Webb's parent company Specter, and Killshot. The survivors had been scraped together to form Creeper, and Webb was reunited with the men and woman he'd gathered together in DC, sans Corporal Jeffrey Wu, who remained in Rachet.

The new CO of Creeper, Captain Alicia Diaz, noted that the five soldiers knew each other, and grouped them up in the same squad. There were three others in Webb's squad, too.

Sergeant Deborah Keynes was a sniper and a student of Captain Diaz, who was widely regarded as Ghost Recon's best sniper and had served General Mitchell himself back when the Ghost Man (as the JSF troopers called him) was still a ground pounder. It was rumored that Keynes was just as good as Diaz, if not better.

Chief Petty Officer Gerry Simmons was a former SEAL. A good rifleman, Simmons carried an XMX Carbine, a resurrection of the cancelled XM8 that had been revived during the military buildup prior to the war. Curiously, he carried a kukri, a machete-like weapon popularized by Gurkha soldiers from Nepal.

Sergeant Thomas Kilgore had been a Ranger for only a month when the then-new JSF grabbed him. Calm in most situations, he excelled at close quarters combat, and used the old-but-reliable MP-5 submachine gun.

"Attention," said the pilot over the intercom. "We are five minutes from target. Say your prayers and check your chutes." While the V-25 usually went into hover mode to drop off her troops like a helicopter, Colonel Taylor wanted the enemy to think that the 35th was going for La Mancha, and a slowing down of the V-25s would invite suspicion. This was only a redundancy since no one thought the Euros expected an invasion of Spain, but it was still there. So the Ghosts of the assault wave, consisting of Creeper, Ice Pick and Ninja, would parachute down like the men of the 101st Airborne, the first division to be folded into the JSF.

"Ready to go, boss?" asked Sergeant Olivia Burke. A former paratrooper herself, this kind of operation was as familiar to her as the back of her hands.

"No," replied Webb truthfully. Jumping out of a perfectly good plane was something he couldn't see as rational. "But I'll be OK."

"Afraid of heights, Chief?" asked Sergeant Fred Harris. A former Ghost Recon soldier under now-Colonel Nick Salvatore, he'd been there and done that several times before the JSF came along, and practically nothing fazed him. "It's actually fun once you get used to it."

"I prefer swimming, the real way to go places," replied the former SEAL.

"Hooyah," Simmons agreed. Then he produced an iPod, attached small speakers to it, and put on Metallica's Fuel.

"Jesus Christ," said Kilgore. "How can you listen to that shit?"

"Hey! No insulting Metallica!"

Webb said nothing, partly because he was also a Metallica fan, partly because Kilgore was part of a tiny minority on the V-25 that didn't like Metallica and the other troopers were enjoying the song, which really pumped one up like a rock song should. But a minute before dirt, he said, "Turn it off and put it away, Simmons. We'll listen to the rest after we kick some Euro ass."

Simmons did so, but grudgingly. He then picked up his XMX and made sure that the weapon was safed.

"Stand up," said Captain Diaz. She seemed to be a hands-on kind of officer, which everyone in Creeper appreciated. She had her signature DSR-1 sniper rifle, an older weapon that she still preferred.

A green light went off, and Captain Diaz leapt out into the howling dark. Webb followed, allowing terror to break into his mind briefly before pulling the cord. He couldn't see anything at first, but then his helmet's night vision kicked in. Looking down, he saw Captain Diaz's chute drifting towards the ground. He tried steering towards her, but parachutes are loyal to the wind and he was pulled away. He drifted down, managed to miss a tree, and landed heavily. Almost as a final insult, the parachute draped over him. Frustrated, Webb crawled out from under it, folded it up and buried it under a pile of brush. Then he checked himself. No broken bones. No injury. SCAR-A1…OK. Px4 Storm pistol…OK. Grenades…OK. Combat Suit…OK. Everything seemed to be fine, but then Webb realized with horror that Diaz hadn't activated her beacon. Green diamonds, all symbolizing Ghosts, were drifting down, and they had no place to rendezvous.

"OK," he said to himself. "I'll find her, then." Checking his map in his Cross-Com, he headed in the general direction where he'd last seen the Captain's chute, trying to approximate where she might be. Webb stuck to the forest, staying away from the main roads, but close enough to see if Euro troops—in this case, Spanish and Portuguese Army regulars—were on the move. They had to be, Webb knew, since the Euros weren't likely to leave a cluster of uplinks unprotected.

The night helped the former SEAL blend in perfectly, but there wasn't anything to hide from until he reached a large house overlooking an uplink. Two Euros were talking to a man who was standing in the door way. Webb didn't know Portuguese, but his Cross-Com translated for him.

"What did you see?" asked one of the Euro soldiers.

"I thought I saw a large cloth, like a parachute," the man replied. "You see, I was a paratrooper a long time ago, and I know what a parachute looks like. Maybe the Russians or the Americans are dropping in saboteurs or spies."

"Maybe," said the other Euro doubtfully. "Maybe it could be a cloth blown away by the wind."

"What, do you think I'm stupid?" the civilian demanded. "I know what I saw."

"Alright, alright," the second soldier said. "OK, where did you see this…parachute?"

"Over there," said the civvy, pointing to where Webb had landed, and the latter realized that he'd been spotted. That meant that it was possible that the rest of the assault element had been spotted as well, but the two Euros he was looking at were behaving too casual for that; their rifles were slung behind their backs, and they weren't even looking around. One was even smoking, something that would ruin the man's night vision.

"OK, we'll check it out," said the first soldier. He motioned to his partner, and frighteningly both started walking almost directly towards where Webb was hiding.

He knew he couldn't move, because twigs were all around him and the two were now close enough to hear. He couldn't kill them with the civvy watching. His only silenced weapon was the old Marine Ka-Bar Fighting Knife that had been a family heirloom since his great-grandfather James Randolph Webb had fought the Japanese on Iwo Jima. He had to separate them and kill them separately, and wait for the civvy to go back inside.

Two meters away, the soldiers stopped and turned around, spotting the civilian watching them. "Go back inside, old man," said the first. "We'll take care of it."

The civilian harrumphed at that, but went back inside muttering about how today's youth no longer respected their elders.

Thank you Baby Jesus, Webb thought to himself. He unsheathed the Ka-Bar. His father, a US Marine who had been horrified to hear that his son had joined the Navy, had added a non-reflective coating to the knife while he'd been in Force Recon, something that Webb was very thankful for. Then he tried the oldest trick in the book: he threw a candy-bar from his ration pack off to one side. The results were predictable.

"What was that noise?" said the first one, reminding Webb of the old-school Metal Gear Solid games. "Let's check it out."

"You check it out," said his partner contemptuously. He lit another cigarette. "It's probably a rabbit, anyway."

The first one responded with a rude gesture and unslung his rifle, moving carefully towards where the ration bar had landed. The second watched him, smoking casually with his back to Webb. It was a mistake.

Quick as a snake, Webb covered the man's mouth with his left hand to prevent him from screaming. With his right he drove the Ka-Bar into the soldier's heart. It wasn't a quick kill, since a quick knife kill only existed in the movies. But it was a quiet one, and the man's futile attempts to alert his partner went unheeded and he soon went limp. Slowly, Webb laid the body down and retrieved the knife. Euro number two was out. It was time to take out number one.

"What's this?" said the first, holding up the ration bar and examining it with his flashlight. "It's in English."

Webb was tempted to say, "American, actually," but witty one-liners were also movie stuff and he didn't want to give his opponent any chance to react. As it turned out, it wouldn't have mattered either way.

"Hey, moron," said the first soldier, calling out to the now-dead partner, "guess what? The old fart was…" He turned around and trailed off, spotting Webb.

Webb understood why the Euro hesitated; the latter was staring at a man who looked like a ghostly shape holding a blood-stained knife, and anyone faced with such a thing wouldn't be faulted for being dumbstruck. But battlefields being the brutally Darwinian environments they were, Webb didn't wait for the Euro to react and lunged.

The Euro, to his credit, reacted a split second after Webb lunged, trying to bring his rifle to bear. It was no use; Webb was too close. But the sudden movement threw the American off, and the knife slashed the Euro's throat instead.

Slashing an enemy's throat was discouraged because of both the mess and the noise. This was no exception. Blood spurted out of the Euro's neck and he made an awful gargling sound as he tried to scream. He dropped his rifle and held his neck, staggering back towards the old man's house.

Webb would have none of it. He tackled the Euro and stabbed him repeatedly, not caring that this wasn't the proper way to neutralize an enemy. Finally the man lay still, and Webb dragged him into the bushes. Then he realized that this would be useless; the man's blood was everywhere, even on his suit. The dirt road was drenched in it. By morning, the Euros would know that shenanigans were afoot, and morning wasn't far off; it was 4:12 AM local time. Webb decided it didn't matter, and went off to search for his Captain.

A small chime in his Cross-Com indicated that someone was pinging him. The someone was close, and it turned out to be Burke. "Nice to see ya, Chief," she whispered. "Any idea where the Captain is?"

"No," he replied. "I'm looking for her too."

"Shit," Burke remarked. "No rally point, and the Navy's going to start bombarding the beach in…what, half an hour?"

"We'll find her," Webb said, assuring himself as much as he was assuring her. Suddenly, as if his assurance actually carried some kind of charm, the Captain's GFT (Green Force Tracker) appeared on his Cross-Com, only ten meters ahead. But it disappeared just as quickly.

"You saw it too?" Burke asked.

"Yeah," Webb said. "Let's get to her. She wouldn't turn off her GFT if she didn't have a good reason."

They moved quickly. As they approached the Captain's position, Webb's com crackled, and a voice that clearly belonged to Diaz hissed, "Get down."

Webb and Burke moved for cover. Pretty soon they saw why Diaz hadn't turned on her GFT. An AMZ-26 Badger Infantry Fighting Vehicle was parked off to one side, with a few soldiers lounging near it. This one had a rudimentary 30mm gun and was painted with regular army markings, but it also had several antennae, which made it a command vehicle for the local commander. If the Ghosts had formed up on Diaz, they would have stumbled right onto the IFV, alerted the Euros and started the battle early.

"Listen up," said Diaz. "I've just made Lieutenant Jimenez's location the new rally point. We're moving to his location." Rafael Jimenez was Diaz's XO. Like the Ghost she was, she suddenly stood up next to Webb, who was alarmed that he hadn't spotted her.

Damn, the lady knows her shit, he thought. "Lead the way, ma'am."

As they walked, Diaz asked, "What happened to you, Chief?"

Webb realized she was asking about the blood. "Hard contact, ma'am. I had no choice."

"How many did you kill?"

"Two. I did it quietly."

"Enforcer Corps?"

Webb shook his head. "Regular Army. I haven't seen any Enforcer Corps units. What about you, Burke?"

"Negative, ma'am. Those Euros near that IFV are the first I've seen," Burke replied.

Slowly, more and more soldiers appeared. Webb's squad was fully formed by the time they reached Lieutenant Jimenez's position, and the rest of Creeper Company was there as well. It was a decidedly odd gathering in the woods, but no one commented on it. "OK, we only have ten minutes till the Navy begins bombarding the beaches. Move to your positions and get ready."

000

As the Americans had hoped, the European Federation had no idea that Portugal and Spain had just been invaded. While they were highly suspicious, most of the senior military staff had agreed that the easiest way for the US to invade was from the north-west. Those men did not include General Amadou de Bankole among their supporters. The commander of the Enforcer Corps remained convinced that the US would invade through Portugal, but the others had overridden his objections, and for now the only Enforcer Corps unit in the region was the 12th Tactical Battalion under Mark Haider, whose tactical expertise was not as good as the rest of the EFEC officers.

This did not please Colonel Antonio Maldini, a rising star in the EFEC and one of the best in the Enforcer Corps, second only to General Alexei Matz. "While the idiots in Paris screw around, the Americans will come from the south-west and crush us. Idiots. I've seen how the Americans operate. Their military is excellent. You never, ever underestimate them. The Mexican rebels learned that to their sorrow, and we learned it at Washington DC."

"You know I agree with you, Colonel," said de Bankole. He said 'colonel' exactly the way it was spelled, not 'kernel', the way most said it.

Maldini swore in Italian. "How do we not have adequate defenses in the west?"

"You know why."

Which was true. While relations between the US and the Federation had chilled when Becerra was elected as the new American president, few had ever expected that both powers would come to blows. The present conflict had started much too fast for any defense plan to be created. On the other hand, Russia had always loomed as a threat, a shadow from the east. Comprehensive defense plans for the eastern sector had already been fully established, much of it based on old Cold War NATO plans made in case of Soviet invasion. As a result, Russian attacks had faltered against well-emplaced European defenses.

"You know, General," said Maldini, "I liked the Americans. We should not be at war with them. Fucking politicians, always screwing things over."

"The Americans invaded European soil first," de Bankole reminded his subordinate.

"And I pushed them back into the sea," said Maldini. "I remember. Colonel Marcus Brown was their commander. A competent soldier, but not a great commander."

"You were lucky then. He had replaced Colonel Jerome Taylor."

"Taylor? The one who smashed the advance of the 45th at Washington DC?"

"Yes."

"Lucky," Maldini observed. "General, I assume you did not call me for simple chit-chat."

De Bankole nodded. "Colonel, high command wants your battalion on the eastern front. Our counter-attacks have failed. The Russians might seize the opportunity to break through."

"What if the Americans invade through Portugal and Spain like they most likely will?"

"Then I will recall you from the east and station you at Le CEITO Army Base." Le CEITO was a brand new base in Spain made exclusively for the Enforcer Corps, and the best defense of the main EF fighter base, Ramstein Air Force Base. Ramstein was an essential part of the defense of the Federation; its location allowed aircraft to cover almost all of Europe.

Suddenly, an aide rushed in. "General! The US has bombed Normandy!"

"What?"

"US Navy planes hit several of our known bases along the coast," the aide, a lieutenant from the army, said. "We managed to shoot down one plane with a surface-to-air missile, but the rest escaped before our fighters could intercept."

"Did you get the survivor?"

The man shook his head. "The plane was completely destroyed. The American is certainly dead."

De Bankole grumbled. "Obviously a diversionary attack from the Ryan battle group. But Val Jean will continue to say that Normandy is the target."

Maldini looked thoughtful. "You know, there's always the off-chance that General Val Jean could be right."

De Bankole harrumphed at that. "I don't think so. He's just using this chance to get even with the British for his own personal reasons. If we'd managed to capture a pilot, we might have known for sure."

"Unlikely," said the lieutenant. "The men are not talking very fondly about the Americans. I don't blame them, but several have vowed to execute any American soldier they find, whether he is surrendering or not."

"Idiots," snarled de Bankole. "Inform every battalion that any man who kills a prisoner or a surrendering soldier will be shot. We don't need to add that to the mess we are already in. Colonel, you have new orders: Deploy to Le CEITO. I don't know what the Americans have planned, but I have a feeling that we will know soon."

000

The sun was coming up, and Creeper Company was overlooking Uplink Sierra from a nearby hill. Once the Marines started landing, the Ghosts would rush their assigned uplinks and secure them before the Euros knew what was happening. This was a little different from the original plan, but the misdrops of the previous night had necessitated a change in plans. Major Dennison wasn't too happy about it, but she'd go along just the same.

Over the encrypted channels, Major Dennison informed them: "Heads up: friendly aircraft coming in."

The friendly aircraft were United States Navy F-35 Lightning II Joint Strike Fighters, accompanied by EA-18G Growler Electronic Warfare planes. The F-35s screamed overhead, hitting pre-marked targets, mostly barracks and radio towers. As the first wave broke off, EF soldiers reacted fast, shouting in Portuguese.

"Snipers, hit 'em," Captain Diaz said softly.

Just prior to the air attack, the company had identified several officers. Four snipers and four marksmen sighted on their targets and fired. Sgt. Deborah Keynes was packing an M110 Sniper Rifle, one that the manufacturers had said was "silenced" despite the fact that the thing was a fifty-cal monster. The report wasn't as loud as Webb had expected it to be, but the rifle still made a loud 'BOOSH' sound. As he watched, a Euro captain's head just plain exploded like a melon, and his body fell limply to the ground, accompanied by a few other officers.

The Euro soldiers were stunned for a few seconds. A few tried to identify where the fire was coming from, but the problem soon solved itself.

"Weapons free, fire!" Diaz shouted. She aimed her DSR-1 and took out a Euro who tried to go for a nearby Fast Attack Vehicle. The round of her rifle, however, was lost amidst the sound of several SCAR-A1 rifles discharging.

The Euros were too stunned to put up much of a defense. Most were killed instantly. A few tried to run away and were mercilessly gunned down. The area was cleared in less than two minutes. "Damn," said Webb.

"Move! Move!" Diaz shouted. "Secure that uplink!"

Creeper had to cross a few meters of open ground, so the Ghosts made a mad dash for the safety of the uplink. Then, Dennison's voice ruined the day: "Heads up, Creeper: Eyes on AMZ-26 Infantry Fighting Vehicles, approaching from the north."

It was just good timing; Creeper reached the safety of the uplink and its low walls just as the group of four Badgers crested the hill to the north, right where Webb had spotted the Euro soldiers he'd killed last night, in front of that old man's house. The Badgers had height advantage and poured 30mm cannon fire on Creeper. Two soldiers were cut down. The rest took cover, but the Badgers were suppressing the Ghosts.

One soldier, armed with an MR-C LW, a rifle that had a gun-cam, pointed his weapon in the general direction of the Badgers while he stayed in cover. "They're deploying infantry," he reported to Diaz.

"They're going to try and retake the uplink," said Lt. Jimenez.

"I didn't think they'd react so fast," said Diaz. "They must've popped up from Foxtrot." She pressed her earpiece. "The Marines have landed. We don't have much time. Creeper Six to Arizona: we need air support, pronto."

A calm, cool voice responded: "Creeper Six, this is HAWX Lead. Approaching you now. Just keep the targets lit."

Once again, Webb heard the scream of the F-35s' Pratt & Whitney F135 engines long before he saw the aircraft themselves. Three of them screeched overhead. Barely seconds later, four J-STRIKE missiles hit the Badgers directly. All four were destroyed. Infantry units nearby were also caught in the blast.

"Nice!" said Keynes. "Who would've thought that the Navy could be badass?"

"They're not Navy," said Webb. He knew who HAWX was; they'd saved his ass several times in the war with Artemis Corporation. "They're Air Force."

"What?" Keynes was confused. "But I thought the Navy was launching the attacks."

"HAWX pilots can fly Navy planes. If it has wings, HAWX squadron can fly it. I owe those guys several beers."

"So do I," said Diaz. "Jimenez, is the uplink secure?"

"Yes ma'am," the El-Tee replied.

"Good. The other companies have secured their uplinks too. The Euro air network over the Iberian Peninsula is fucked up good."

To the west, the unmistakable sounds of combat could be heard. The Marines, supported by the same aircraft supporting the JSF and their own Abrams tanks, Fast Attack Vehicles (FAVs, basically Humvees) and AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters, were tearing shit up like Marines were supposed to do. Even now, some units had punched holes in the Euro lines so deep that Webb could spot a few Abrams rolling about, firing at unseen targets. Then two V-120 Valkyries landed nearby, disgorging four M5A2 Schwarzkopf tanks and four M-118 Fastback IFVs. The lead Schwarzkopf rolled up to Diaz, and the tank commander popped up. "Looks like we missed a party," he said.

"You sure didn't," said Diaz. "The party's just getting started."

000

Val Jean looked apologetic. "It seems you were right, Amadou."

"Why?" de Bankole asked. It was odd to see Val Jean looking so humbled.

"De Guerre's submarines noted that the Arizona, part of the Ryan battle group, and her escorts were missing from the main group day before yesterday. Just a few hours ago, the uplink network in Arrabida went silent. I fear that the Americans are trying to invade Iberia, just like you said."

De Bankole was torn between vindication and fear. "What about the Army units there?"

"All attempts to contact them have failed. The Americans have certainly seized the uplink networks, and an enemy AWACS is jamming our satellites."

"Damn," de Bankole muttered. "I will alert Colonel Haider, but don't hold out for any hope. If anything, Colonel Maldini will have to hold out at Le CEITO." Which was the problem. Would the Americans indeed try to penetrate the south of France, drive for Paris and thus end the war early? Or would they continue eastward, meet the Russians and try to stop their advance? Paris, de Bankole decided. The Americans liked to solve things quickly and decisively. That meant that putting Maldini in Le CEITO was the right thing to do. The Americans would be hard pressed to take Le CEITO with Maldini in charge. Not only that, Maldini would have air support from Ramstein AB.

Yes, Le CEITO was where Europa would draw the line. The brass and the president would balk at the idea of just giving up the Iberian Peninsula, but allowing the Americans to take it without much fuss would give them what de Bankole liked to call "victory fever", an extreme overconfidence. "Build their hopes up, and then smash them," his instructors had said. De Bankole was simply doing the building. The smashing would be done by Maldini, and woe unto any American unfortunate enough to challenge him.

00000


	4. Chapter 4: Eye of the Hawk

Eye of the Hawk

Arrabida had fallen a lot quicker than Colonel Jerome Taylor had expected. Despite initial resistance, the Euro defenders had quickly given up in the face of superior American firepower. It was a historical European weakness: they relied too much on their infantry and not enough on their armor. Even the AMZ-26 Badger Infantry Fighting Vehicle, the most advanced of its type, was designed primarily to get infantry in and out of trouble spots quickly, and to defend positions against air attack.

American units, on the other hand, relied equally on infantry and armor, but tended to field more of the latter. US military doctrine was designed by men who didn't want to put their soldiers into unnecessary danger. Ranged vehicles, therefore, were always wanted. The M118 Fastback IFV, the American counterpart to the Badger, was designed with such a purpose in mind, providing gunfire that was equally lethal to helicopters as well as infantry and light armored vehicles at a greater range.

Taylor examined the reports coming in from his commanders. Aside from a few pockets of resistance, Arrabida was in US hands. Fully half of Iberia was dark to the enemy, whose aircraft couldn't coordinate well enough without the uplinks at Arrabida. There had been a scare earlier from a few Mirage fighters, but those had been splashed by Navy F-35s. He decided that regs allowed him to go ashore now. He couldn't wait to get in his command vehicle, the brand new C1A5 Archon that gave him drastically enhanced awareness of the battlefield. Equipped with a MQ-3 Scryer UAV and protected by both a 20mm chaingun and PD-6 Rottweiler sentry drones, the Archon was the command vehicle that every US commander had on their letters to Santa. For Taylor, this meant that, besides having better control over the 35th, he was now closer to his fellow warriors. Which was where he wanted to go now.

"OK," he said to the Navy crewmen who'd loaded the Archon onto a V-120. "That looks good enough. Tell me when the bird is fueled and I'll leave."

"Not yet," said Captain George Fitzpatrick, the CO of the USS Kunar. "The admiral wants air escort when you go in, so you'll have to wait while those 35s get refueled. You're lucky; the Air Force's best have drawn the duty."

"HAWX?" Taylor asked.

"Yep. Major Crenshaw is one hell of an aviator…at least for an Air Force puke." It was an understatement. Crenshaw and his two wingmen, Charlie "Casper" Polaski and Robert "Talon" Hendricks, had spearheaded the counterattack against Artemis Corporation the previous year. The war had ended when Crenshaw, flying solo in an F-22A, launched two J-STRIKE missiles into the house of Artemis's CEO Adrian DeWinter. Thanks to that action and the current circumstances, HAWX was now a major part of US operations and was fully reactivated by the Air Force.

Quick footsteps alerted Taylor to the approach of Major Dennison. A true officer, she'd shown nothing but slight disappointment when her plan had been rejected at the last second, even though Taylor knew she'd been very upset. The problem was that she hadn't realized yet the truth of the saying "No plan survives contact with the enemy". She'd been in administration for too long. Taylor decided to change that.

"The units all report sporadic contact with a few resisting units," she reported. "But they're optimistic about dealing with them." She frowned. "We're behind schedule. Arrabida should've been pacified by now."

"Actually, Major," Taylor replied, "we're ahead of schedule. The few resisters aren't going to pose much of a problem, not if the company commanders are competent…which they are. In fact, I've decided to go to Arrabida myself."

"Go into an active battlefield by yourself, sir?" Dennison had known something like this might happen, but she'd hoped that reason would prevail. Apparently, Taylor was exactly like General Mitchell: an officer who wanted to be a Ghost again. He was even in standard JSF combat gear, with a SCAR-A1 slung across his back.

"Not by myself, no," said Taylor. "You're coming with me."

"M-me?" This was totally unexpected. "Sir, I—I don't think I'm…"

"What? Have you forgotten you're an officer in the Joint Strike Force?"

"No sir, but I haven't fired a weapon since the refresher course two months ago." Which was true. Dennison had qualified with the lighter SCAR-L, a 5.56mm variant of the SCAR-A1, and rated as above average with the Px4 pistol. But that had just been to show the predominantly male officer batch that had taken the course with her that she could shoot just like the rest of them. After that, she hadn't even touched a weapon.

"As I recall, you didn't do all that bad," said Taylor, suppressing a smile. This was the first time he'd seen his XO rattled. "You still know how to strip, clean, and assemble your weapons, don't you?"

"Yes sir, but—"

"Then get your gear, Major. And change into fatigues; this is going to be a whole lot different than administration."

000

President of the Russian Federation Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin basked in the glory of his great nation. Russian forces had ended a stalemate in Eastern Europe and were slowly but steadily pushing back the Europeans. Word had just reached him that the Americans had begun combat operations in the west, and that was just more good news. Caught between the American eagle and the Russian bear, the Europeans would fall quickly. That was the good news.

The only bad news was the failed attempt at invading the US through Canada. It had failed utterly, and now the Canadians and the British were engaged in operations against him. Casualties would be high, his advisors had told him, but soldiers die in war, and what better purpose for a Russian soldier than to die for the glory of the Rodina?

General Sergei Izotov, the commander of the Russian Spetsnaz Guard Brigade, shared the same sentiment. Nothing was more sacred than the motherland. It was the only reason for this war. Had they been left to do as they wished, the west would have eventually united against Russia to grab her oil reserves. Now the European Federation and the United States were at each other's throats, and this was a unique opportunity to get rid of two threats with one stroke.

"Our heroic forces are pushing the Europeans further west, Comrade President," Izotov said. He like the Communist title of 'Comrade' better than the West's 'Mister', despite the fact that Russia was no longer Communist. "Soon, we will reach Berlin, and our American comrades will reach Paris. Then we shall do a great battle on the corpse of Europe, which we will win. And so, Russia will take her seat at the table of power."

"And that table had only one chair," said Kapalkin. "But why wait for the Americans to attack us? Why not invade them?"

Izotov was idealistic but not a fool. "It failed last time, Comrade President."

"Because we invaded by violating a neutral country's airspace. If we capture that country, such concerns would be eliminated, yes?"

"Yes," Izotov admitted, "but now that we've tried it once, the likelihood is that it will fail again."

"Unless…" mused Kapalkin. "Unless we can trick the Canadians into thinking that we are indeed trying the same thing. But instead, we invade Canada."

"Your wisdom continues to impress," said Izotov. He didn't like kissing this gangster's ass, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. After all, the Guard Brigade could suddenly seize power after the war, riding on its success. And Kapalkin could then die mysteriously from a hemorrhage. A nine-millimeter hemorrhage. "Most of the American forces will drive into Europe. But we have a limited time. If the amerikansti behave as usual, they will seize Paris as soon as they can. I believe they have the capability to do just that."

"So, what are you waiting for, Comrade General?"

000

Taylor didn't understand why Dennison looked so uncomfortable in fatigues. She'd decided—unwisely, Taylor thought—to come along armed only with her pistol, which was clipped to her right leg "Lara Croft" style. She looked good in anything, Taylor thought, his eyes wandering….

Focus, old boy, focus, Taylor told himself. This wasn't the time or place to think anything like that. Instead, he decided to distract himself by looking over his driver's shoulder to peer out at the world outside.

The C1A5 Archon Command Vehicle was an excellent piece of engineering. It handled bumps and holes as well as its Fastback cousins. And it was pretty fast, too; evaluations put its top speed at eighty-six miles per hour, maybe more if pushed. Its communications, all heavily encrypted, were top of the line. Which meant that General Mitchell's picture, transmitted from his temporary HQ on USS Arizona, was crystal clear. "What's the situation, Colonel?" he asked.

Taylor suppressed a frown. While Mitchell himself hadn't liked it when General Keating got on the horn in the middle of an operation, it was a habit that had rubbed off on the top Ghost. Taylor hated having someone breathe down his neck, but he was a Colonel, and as a colonel he'd take whatever his General gave him. "All pockets of resistance have been neutralized, sir. Arrabida is in US hands. What's next?"

"La Mancha," Mitchell answered. He outlined what Taylor had to do. "I suggest that you get the company commanders in on this. Good luck. Mitchell out."

"OK," said Taylor. This didn't sound too bad. "Major, rally the unit leaders."

Half an hour later, in a large tent camouflaged by trees, twenty-four officers listened politely as Taylor outlined the operation. "We're calling this Operation: RED STORM. With any luck, if a Euro manages to get the name of this op, he'll think we're going after the Russians. In any case, here's how it goes.

"The JSF is going to assault La Mancha. The 35th is leading the assault, backed by 12th Armored and the 13th Airborne. The 35th's objective is to seize this hilltop, which is designated as Foxtrot. As you may notice, this hill has a few structures that'll do just fine for long-range snipers and artillery. I want a ring of tanks around the base of the hill. The tanks will protect the infantry assault. With artillery support, three companies will assault the hill. The other three will remain in reserve," just in case the first three are wrecked, he didn't say. "The gunships will hang back in case the Euros try to counter with tanks and artillery…in which case, a tank company will peel away from the base of the hill and attack any IFVs that are protecting the enemy artillery." What the Badger IFVs lacked in armor, they more than made up in anti-air. "The Fastbacks will remain on standby, just in case the troops need a quick evac, and also if there're vehicles that need fixing; the engineers will be on standby as well. The 13th is going to seize this castle. If all goes well, Colonel Brown's tanks will then go up the middle and crush the remaining enemies. Any questions?"

Captain Robert Toland of Ninja Company raised his hand. "Sir, what is the significance of La Mancha?"

"La Mancha is a town famous for having a big-ass castle in it, which is being used by the enemy as an HQ. The 13th is going to assault that with Goshawks and try to capture any enemy officers. La Mancha itself is being used as a possible staging ground to counter our invasion. Intel says that the Euros aren't ready yet, so this is the best time to strike."

Captain Diaz asked, "Sir, where does this intel come from?"

"From a few good operatives," said Taylor, his face blank. They all got the message. Although suspected to exist by many in the military, Third Echelon was still unknown by most everyone, and any info about it was mostly gossip. "Trust me people, this intel is solid."

Captain Roland Freemont of Ice Pick spoke up. "Who are we facing, sir?"

Taylor smiled. "Well Roland, you and your fellow officers are lucky, 'cuz you're going to be the first JSF units in Iberia to officially engage in combat with the European Federation Enforcer Corps. There's only one battalion of EFEC troops, but they're supported by regular army troops and they have air cover. We don't have either of those supports."

"What?" asked the captain of Ratchet Company, the engineer company that Corporal Wu belonged to. "No air support? Excuse me sir, but how the hell are we supposed to complete our objectives if the Euro planes start shitting bombs on our heads?"

"I feel you captain, but I don't have much choice in the matter." Inwardly, Taylor cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier. "'Ours is not to reason why', captain."

"'Ours is but to do and die'," finished Captain Benny Zabir, CO of the gunship squad Cobra. "I'd rather not do the dying, of course. I'd leave that to the Euros."

Taylor wanted solutions, not comments. "You have a suggestion, Captain?"

"Sir, my soul is boiling just contemplating this, but why not ask the Marines for help? They have the STOVL version of the F-35, right? They don't need a long airfield. Better than nothing, anyway."

"That's a thought, Benny. It must've taken a lot out of you to suggest that." That elicited a few chuckles. There were complaints, quiet ones, that like General Mitchell and General Keating, Taylor was prejudiced towards anyone who hadn't served in the Army. Most didn't believe the rumors, but couldn't deny the fact that all of Taylor's top officers were indeed Army. "I'll ask our jarhead comrades about that. OK, you have your orders. Dismissed."

000

Colonel Antonio Maldini stared at the large tac map that dominated an entire wall of the briefing room. Things were going badly. The Russians had broken through the eastern front and were thoroughly in control of east Poland, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. The Ukrainian troops were being encircled. Worse, the terrorists in the Balkans had seized the opportunity to take control of that area and were attacking European troops.

And then there was the American threat. They'd seized Portugal without much fuss, establishing air control over that nation. Colonel Haider was mustering troops in La Mancha for a "counter-attack"…which was more like a delaying action. Still, his choice of that area was smart; the town was far enough from the American front-lines that there was little risk of air attack, and close enough to be a staging point. Maldini knew that if he'd been in command, he'd have launched an attack by now. But Haider was waiting for more regular army troops to supplement his forces, and that was giving the Americans time, time that they would undoubtedly use wisely.

There were a few bright spots. European subs had sunk twelve merchant ships flying the US flag, and troops based in Turkey were stubbornly resisting Russian attacks, inflicting heavy casualties on the vaunted Spetsnaz Guards Brigade. But the truth of the matter was that Europa was on the defensive, reacting instead of acting. Such a war could only be lost. The Federation had to take offensive action, and soon.

"But where?" Maldini wondered. The map gave him no answers.

000

Major David Crenshaw examined the cockpit of the unmarked F-35 that belonged exclusively to the squadron leader of HAWX Squadron. The V/STOL aircraft had garnered an impressive reputation, although it really couldn't hold a candle to its cousin, the F-22 Raptor. It was used primarily as a ground attack aircraft, a role it excelled at. It was also a decent dog fighter.

"Reaper Flight, this is Citadel," said the controller on board the AWACS quarterbacking the mission. "The airspace around the operation area is clear at this time. You may commence attacks on ground targets at will. Citadel out."

Crenshaw didn't acknowledge. It would vector any fighters the Euros had against HAWX or the AWACS, and he was pretty sure the fighter escort that Citadel had was adequate enough to deal with enemy fighters, even though the aviators guarding the thing were Marines. With a brief double tap of his com system, he let his wingmen attack at will, and dove for the ground.

Even at this height, the battle on the ground was spectacular. Crenshaw watched a column of Schwarzkopf tanks rumble along, guarded by AH-80 Blackfoot gunships, the dangerous new descendant of the venerable Apache. Suddenly, a blue blur screamed by, and four of the gunships burst into flames. Belatedly, Citadel reported, "Reaper Flight, we have enemy ground attack aircraft in the vicinity. They are priority targets. Engage at will!"

"Roger," Crenshaw said. With that, he twisted the control stick and went after the nearest Eurofighter Hailstorm. He had four AIM-120D AMRAAM missiles, which he reasoned would be enough.

The pilot apparently saw him, because he dropped his bomb load and climbed, banking sharply and popping flares. Crenshaw bored in right after him, and fired off a missile. The results were just as expected. The Sidewinder slammer into the fighter, cracking it in two. The pilot didn't eject, and the Hailstorm—what was left of it—hit the ground. "Flight leader has the kill, good shot," confirmed Citadel.

"Nailed him," said Talon, his wingman, pulling out of a maneuver and leaving behind nothing but a dead Hailstorm. His other wingman, Casper, also announced a successful kill; conserving ammo, he'd managed to maneuver his enemy into the ground.

"Your wingmen are getting all the kills, Reaper lead," said Citadel. "They'll be gunning for your job next."

"Horseshit," Crenshaw said. He was the first ace since the two previous World Wars to post triple digit kills that were all confirmed on gun cam. His current record was one hundred and twelve. He spotted another Hailstorm at one-o'clock low. Soon, that one was killed by another Sidewinder up the tailpipe. "That's a hundred thirteen, Citadel."

"Careful boss," said Casper. "We might catch up faster than you think."

"Again, horseshit," Crenshaw grinned. "But I appreciate your enthusiasm."

"Reaper Flight, this is Creeper Six," said Captain Diaz, leading a charge on a hill called Foxtrot. "We're being hit by sniper fire from the windmill. They have rockets there and they've already taken out a gunship. Take that building apart!"

"Roger, rolling in now," Crenshaw replied. He had two J-STRIKEs which he'd hoped to conserve for enemy armor, but they'd have to do. "Talon, form up on me. Casper, make sure no Euros come up on our asses."

"Roger, your asses are covered in a nice warm blanket," said Casper. He went after a pair of Eurofighter Typhoons bearing down on them.

Crenshaw saw the windmill and the trails of smoke leading from it; rockets being fired from the windows. He was almost in range when his threat receiver blared. "Ah shit! SAM watch, SAM watch!" He thought quickly. Creeper needed support now, but the SAM was bearing down on him. He decided to see who it was aimed at. "Talon, break left and pop flares!"

"Roger," Talon acknowledged in a calm voice that masked his anxiety. He did as told, making a sharp turn and firing off flares. The missile didn't follow, and Crenshaw's threat receiver continued to make noise. "Lead, the SAM is going after you. Evade, I say again, evade!"

"Fuck it! I'm taking that building out!" Crenshaw gritted his teeth. He should've evaded instead of Talon, should've allowed his wingman to hit the building, but it was too late. He got in range, fired off both J-STRIKEs and broke right, popping flares.

It worked. The SAM, almost close enough to detonate its deadly ordnance, couldn't turn fast enough to track the F-35. It went after a flare instead, exploding harmlessly. "That was a close one, Reaper Lead," Citadel observed. "Creeper Six has reported that they are no longer under sniper fire, and the gunships are moving freely. Well done. Oh, and tanks from Punisher Company have taken out that SAM battery."

Crenshaw relaxed ever so slightly. The SAM was the only thing he really feared, since they couldn't always be detected until their tracking radar was turned on, an art the Russians had perfected and that the Euros were fast learning. It was because neither the Euros nor the Russians had an air force capable of matching the USAF that the two resorted to state-of-the-art SAM batteries.

"Reaper Flight, this is Citadel. We have eyes on six, repeat six enemy interceptors. Recommend you engage immediately."

Crenshaw frowned. The enemy was most likely flying Eurofighter Typhoons, aircraft that were extremely capable. He knew their capabilities, and he didn't like the odds. He had two more Sidewinders and 220 rounds of 25mm cannon rounds, only a few seconds worth of firing time. "Talon, Casper, what do you have left?"

"I got three Sidewinders, boss," said Talon.

"I got two, Lead," Casper responded.

"Make 'em count! HAWX Squadron, let's get 'em!"

Crenshaw raced after the Typhoons. Their most likely target would be the AWACS, and the Boeing product was vulnerable even with its fighter escorts. Soon, he spotted the small specks that were the interceptors: two groups of three, bearing down on Citadel. "Talon, take out the ones to the north. Casper, you and I are going after the one closest to Citadel." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he went ahead, Casper right behind him.

The Typhoons didn't react for a second, but the closest group broke away and targeted Crenshaw. The lead fired first, and Crenshaw, using fighter pilot instincts that had been so engraved into him that they were as natural to him as blinking, nudged the control stick quickly and went pass the missile. The missile couldn't turn quickly and lost lock. Crenshaw's helmet blared with the tone that indicated a solid lock, but he waited till he could see the canopy of the Typhoon before he fired.

There was no dodging it. The Sidewinder was fired almost point-blank in an Air Force perspective, and the Typhoon ate it. "Kill!" said Crenshaw, already vectoring in on the second Typhoon. A second explosion briefly distracted him. My god, no… "Casper?"

"I'm alive, boss. He ain't."

Crenshaw was relieved. A similar statement from Talon indicated that three of the attackers were down. The remaining three, however, were in no mood to retreat. One slid in neatly behind Crenshaw and fired a missile, forcing him to turn and pop flares. The missile missed, but oddly the Typhoon didn't bother to go after him, and instead streaked after Citadel.

"No you don't, you son of a bitch…" Crenshaw went after him. The Typhoon was seconds from missile range of the AWACS. He got tone and fired off his last Sidewinder, but the Typhoon pilot had just enough time to fire his own at the AWACS before Crenshaw's missile went up his tail-pipe.

The big Boeing product lurched right, popped flares and lurched left, the pilot trying to confuse the missile. But it kept right on target. Crenshaw was sickened. Friends were on that plane. He didn't know what he'd say to the families.

Suddenly, one of Citadel's Marine escorts turned sharply…and interposed his F-35 between the missile and the AWACS. The missile connected with the fighter and blew it to bits. And Citadel was saved.

The operator sounded grim. "Any sign of a chute, Reaper Lead?"

Crenshaw looked, looked hard, knowing he wanted to see this Marine, shake his hand, ask him why he'd do something that stupid, that brave… "Negative, negative. No chute."

Thanks to HAWX, there were only two Typhoons left, and the Marine pilots went after those, both to eliminate the threat to Citadel and to avenge their fallen brother. Crenshaw let them. He was Winchester, out of missiles. He watched with grim satisfaction as the Marines snuffed both Typhoons. Then he reported his status to Citadel.

"Reaper Flight, return to base. The ground attack is successful. La Mancha is ours. Well done. And well done, Dragon Flight." The last was the Marine escort squadron, who responded with the traditional 'Oorah!', but with less enthusiasm, the memory of the dead pilot in their minds.

With that, Crenshaw turned the stick and prepared to head back to the base at Arrabida, to drink to victory and to a fellow pilot's memory.


	5. Chapter 5: Ninja

Chapter 5: Ninja

Sitting in a rubber Zodiac inflatable boat, Captain George Pitcher, 22nd Special Air Service, wondered about his latest op. Hostilities with Russia were fully underway, and it looked like the mainland Euros (the British called them "Feddies", in mockery of the Federation, and to distance the UK from the 'other' Europeans) were about to launch an invasion, or so SIS said. Now his superiors wanted him and his squad to conduct an operation in Finland against the Russians. Specifically, His Majesty's Government wanted to know why a Federation SLAMS satellite mistook the Freedom Star shuttle for a missile. Pitcher believed, as his superiors did, that the answer to the questions of "How and Why The War Started" would be answered. Pitcher remembered the briefing.

"We rescued a Spetsnaz Brigade officer off of a sinking Russkie sub," the SIS man had said. "Before dying of extreme injuries, he was babbling about something called 'Stiletto'. Our American friends in Third Echelon (that name does not, by the way, leave this room) went into the video records of the Forgotten Army's attack on the Feddies' air base at Rovaniemi and discovered this man was present during the attack. This means, obviously, that the Russians were the attackers at Rovaniemi and not, as was previously thought, the Forgotten Army. Further proof that the Guards Brigade was involved is seen in these photos of the new T-100 tanks, exclusive to Spetsnaz. Your colleagues have also told me that this attack was too organized to be Forgotten Army. We know that shortly after the attack on Rovaniemi, SLAMS Satellite EF-01932 shot down the shuttle lifting off Cape Canaveral, starting this whole bloody war. This line of thought only goes to one conclusion, but we want proof of Russian involvement. Now, Finland is being crushed by the Russians, and they're lead by the Eighth Spetsnaz Guards. Their commanding officer is Alexei Savolov, whom we believe led the attack on Rovaniemi. We want you to capture and interrogate Savolov, then exfiltrate. The Virginia-Class Submarine USS Missouri will help you get in and out. Good luck."

Luck, Pitcher reflected, was something he needed a lot of. Taking eight men against an entire battalion was a situation that required gratuitous amounts of luck, and more than a handful of insanity. Thankfully, Bravo Team wasn't alone. Two JSF Ghost snipers, Chief Philips and Chief Benson, were prepared to cover their retreat. Judging by the orders he'd received, Pitcher knew that Bravo Team would be sans prisoner on the return trip, and thus lighter. And it was just as well that the JSF wasn't taking active charge of the mission. As far as SIS knew, the CIA still firmly believed that the Federation staged the Forgotten Army attacks, as did Third Echelon. But Director Fisher of 3E liked to cover his bases, and had managed to convince both General Keating and General Mitchell to allow US support of this mission.

The night sky was lit by the Northern Lights…and explosions from far off; Finland wasn't going to go down easy. The trickiest part was to avoid troops on both sides; as far as the British were concerned, the Federation was a hostile player now, and therefore EF troops were targets.

The landing was smooth and quiet, just as Pitcher liked it. The Ghosts moved off to the exfiltration point, deflating the boat and taking it with them. Bravo team went into the snow-covered forest.

It wasn't long before they rendezvoused with their contact, a Finnish resistance leader, codename Miner. A British spy, Miner was to pretend—in front of his resistance mates—that Bravo Team was a squad of EF Kommandos who were from Germany, which was why all of Pitcher's team and the two Ghosts were chosen for their ability to speak the language.

"Good, you are here," he said in German. The two men with him didn't know German, which worked in his favor. "The ambush is ready."

"Ambush?" Pitcher hadn't known about such a thing.

"Yes. When I got the signal from L—I mean, Paris, I knew what they wanted. So I have set up an ambush for our friend Colonel Savolov. He likes to travel by himself, with only a few soldiers as escort. We use Federation EMP grenade to disable his jeep and communications, then we shoot his escorts and grab the good Colonel."

"I like it," said Pitcher. "How many men do you have with you?"

"Four. They are regular army. We can trust them."

"You can trust them," snorted Sergeant McAllister, Pitcher's right-hand man. A grizzled veteran of Afghanistan, McAllister had been betrayed by guerilla groups before.

"Leave it," Pitcher said warningly. "Let's get to that ambush point. Your men know what Savolov looks like, I trust? I don't want them to slot the bugger."

Miner grimaced. "The good Colonel likes to shoot soldiers and civilians who surrender. He tapes the executions and sends the tapes around to demoralize us. We know what he looks like."

"Good. Then we can trust your men not to go for revenge."

"They are highly disciplined, I assure you."

Pitcher examined the hard looks on Miner's men, and hoped the man was right. Less than ten minutes later, a Russian jeep trundled along a dirt road, followed by another that had his escorts. Pitcher readied his silenced M4A1 Carbine.

"Now," Miner said to his men.

As one, the Finns threw a spread of EMP grenades. There wasn't an explosion as such, but the two vehicles stopped immediately. The Russians immediately jumped out, and Pitcher fired. His burst hit a Russian in the head. Then his team and the Finns opened fire as well. The Russians were cut down by a combination of rifles and pistols, being able to return fire only briefly. The exchange lasted a little over two minutes, leaving six Russians, a Finn and an SAS soldier dead. The latter was dragged away by two of his comrades while Pitcher and Miner approached the lead jeep. Sitting, stunned, in the front passenger seat was Colonel Savolov. Roughly, Miner yanked the door open…and was surprised when the Russian planted a knife in his arm.

Miner yelled in surprise and pain and stumbled back as Savolov jumped out, only to be confronted by Pitcher. Knowing that it was too late to pull out his pistol, Savolov instead charged Pitcher, crashing into the surprised SAS soldier before he could bring his rifle to bear.

He'd forgotten that Savolov was a fully trained Spetsnaz soldier with experience in Chechnya, Pitcher realized. But Pitcher was SAS and therefore not helpless. He shoved the Colonel back and kicked him, putting distance between the two. Pitcher realized he'd dropped his carbine in the scuffle, and the Russian attacked again. This time, however, Pitcher was ready, and the two engaged in a test of martial arts skills.

Savolov was highly skilled, but he was old, whereas Pitcher was relatively younger and faster. Within a few seconds, he'd beaten the Russian into submission, and McAllister had restrained Savolov.

A few minutes later, Savolov awoke to find himself in a basement. It seemed vaguely familiar to him…

"Hello, Comrade Colonel," Pitcher said.

Savolov saw a man wearing a combat suit, the same man he'd fought. Standing in a corner was the one he'd stabbed, and along a wall were a group of men who were watching him carefully. He didn't reply to Pitcher.

"Look, old boy," Pitcher continued, "you can talk to us, or you can talk to the Finns. But, seeing as you've gone out of your way to make them hate you, I'd think their interrogation won't be as pleasant as the conversation we're going to have. So, tell me: what is Stiletto?"

Again, Savolov didn't reply, but this was mostly because he was too shocked to say anything. It showed on his face.

"Ah, didn't expect us to find out about that, eh? Now, my good man, tell me: What. Is. Stiletto?"

Savolov didn't know he'd been drugged. "A virus."

"What kind?"

"Computer."

"What does it do?"

"I do not know."

Pitcher smiled sadly. "Just when I thought we were getting along." He looked at Miner, who stepped forward, Savolov's knife in hand.

"I thought you might want it back," Miner said. "Shall I put it in your heart, or in your neck? Or somewhere below the belt?"

"OK, OK!" said the man. "It sabotaged the SLAMS system. When the European satellite shot down that American shuttle, that was the virus corrupting satellite's programming. We wanted the Federation and US to go to war with each other, so both get weakened. Then Mother Russia will crush both."

"And that's it?"

"That is all I know."

"Alright, old boy. Thank you very much for your cooperation." Pitcher looked at Miner. "Make it quick."

Miner walked very slowly to Savolov. The Russian stared at him. "Do you remember me?" Miner said quietly. "I'm sure you don't. You see, I received a video of you shooting villagers for propaganda purposes. One of them was my daughter."

Savolov was pale. He knew what came next. "I took no pleasure in it. It was a duty."

Miner didn't care. He raised a silenced pistol borrowed from Pitcher. "This is for my daughter, whom you shot in the head." Miner fired once, then twice, a bullet in the heart and one in the head. Without emotion, he handed the pistol back to Pitcher. "It is done. Thank you for this."

"No problem, mate," said Pitcher. "What are you going to do with the body?"

"Leave it here," Miner said. "I would have had it displayed, but the Russians may not know that their commander is dead. They will be looking for him. The army and the resistance will take advantage of the confusion." He grinned. "You may have helped the Federation save Finland."

"Bugger the Feddies," growled Pitcher. "I think it is time to take your leave, friend."

"I think so, too. You have been here too long."

The return trip was uneventful. Pitcher made sure the recorder that had run the entire time of their conversation with Savolov was secure. It was vital evidence, evidence that could be used to stop the war between the Federation, the UK and the US, and force them to unite against the true enemy, Russia.

On board the Missouri, Pitcher immediately went to Commander Peterson, the CO of the sub, and apprised him of the situation. "I believe we need to get this to command as soon as humanly possible," Pitcher finished. "This is why the war started. We can use this intel to stop this fighting between you and the Feddies, and halt the invasion of Britain."

"I agree, Captain," said Peterson. "But I can't break radio silence till we're out of enemy territory." Seeing the outraged look on Pitcher's face, Peterson moved quickly to explain. "We're a lone US submarine in an area infested with Federation and Russian subs, and ASW boats too. This info is worth more than our lives, but we have to be alive to get it to command. Until we get to Southampton, the war will go on." It was a real concern. The European Federation's Baltic Fleet had not been affected by the failed attack on the US. The good news was that it was heavily engaged in combat with the Northern Fleet of the Russian Federation. The bad news was that the path out of the Baltic was likely to be closely watched by both sides.

"I see," said Pitcher. Bloody submariners, he thought. "How long?"

"Optimistically? Three weeks. We won't be able to take a straight path because we'll have to avoid all the hunter subs and ASW ships. We can't initiate combat, because even if we win, the enemy will know there's a US sub here, and they'll send their hunter subs after us. So, the war will have to go on for at least a month. I'm sorry, Captain. I want this damn war to end, too." He took a drink from a water bottle; he'd been sober for six months, and wasn't planning on going back, let alone break regulations. "Goddamn Russkies."

Pitcher didn't say anything, but shared the same sentiment. Someone, or a group of someones in the Russian government had started a third world war just to weaken the Federation and the US…and his nation had been dragged into it. Someone had to pay, but in the meantime there would be a month's worth of war.

000

Master Chief Petty Officer Oliver Webb reassembled his rifle. The SCAR had seen some hard work at La Mancha. He wasn't one to carve notches into the steel, but he knew, both from the HUD cam and from his nightmares that he'd killed twenty men. He'd been lucky; his squad had gotten through in one piece. Others hadn't been so lucky. Nine Creeper Company men and women were dead, and twelve were wounded. Altogether, thirty were dead from the entire battalion. Replacements were being flown in from the forward operating base at Arrabida. Thankfully, JSF recruits weren't newbies, but rather experienced operators from the SEALs, Rangers, Delta Force and other special forces units…or so went the theory. Many were fresh out of training, and while special forces training was something else, nothing ever came close to real combat.

Webb walked out of his tent, rifle slung over his shoulder. A group of former Force Recon men walked by, shouting "Oorah!" and "Semper Fi!" Webb gave them his best Navy scorn-face. It was nothing more than bravado; the battlefield had brought these warriors together in an unbreakable bond. Webb was glad to have them at his back.

"You alright?" asked Sgt. Burke. She stared at him.

"I'm fine," said Webb. "Just never expected to glad to see a group of jarheads."

The former paratrooper laughed. "Yeah, Marines have their uses."

Captain Diaz walked by. "Webb, get your squad ready. We're going to Le CEITO."

"Le CEITO?" Webb hurried to get his gear. "But I thought that op wasn't for another week."

"It isn't," Diaz confirmed. "Higher wants a squad to recon the area and designate the headquarters building for destruction."

"By what?" wondered CPO Gerry Simmons, quickly gathering up his things.

"Bombers, idiot," said Sgt. Deborah Keynes. "Y'know, the Air Force has those long range bombers? B2 Spirits? They can go round the world. Amazing things."

"Yeah, smartie-pants," snorted Simmons. "We'd do that if we'd want to nuke the place, which we don't want to do. Right, Cap'n?"

"Right," said Diaz. "This is not going to become a thermonuclear war, and if it does, it'd be sure as hell started by the Russians. We're designating it for a KR strike."

"KR strike?" Simmons repeated.

"Kinetic Rods, Simmons," said Diaz. "I suggest you crawl out from under that rock you've been living under."

"Aye, ma'am." Then he whispered. "I'll miss the rock."

Jimmy Cruz hummed happily to himself. Nothing seemed to faze him, and Webb wondered whether that was a good or bad thing. Kowalski was quiet. Harris was likewise, and Burke stared straight ahead towards the castle of La Mancha, examining it. Webb was satisfied. They were ready.

"Hey Simmons," Webb said. "Where did you get that big ol' knife?"

"This?" Simmons replied, indicating the large kukri. "I got this during the Pakistani Civil War, back in 2015. The Indian Army troops I worked with were Gurkha soldiers from Nepal. Damn good soldiers. I saved the life of their CO, and he gave me this as a thank-you gift."

"Ever killed anyone with it?"

"Not yet," said Simmons, clearly disappointed. "But once you swing this baby, game over for the bad guy."

Soon, the team boarded a V-25 Goshawk that soared away from La Mancha. Once again, Simmons used the opportunity to play Metallica. Sgt. Kilgore started complaining again. Everything was normal, and the pilots wanted to keep it that way.

Captain Patrick "PJ" Johns and his co-pilot Lieutenant Henry Aramaki were among the best pilots in the business. PJ and Henry had gotten their hard-earned skills through two years of bloody combat in Afghanistan and Iran, flying the V-22 Osprey for Ghost Recon, dodging surface-to-air missiles, enemy attack choppers and flak. They'd gone into hell and back more times than either would bother to count, and they were legends in the JSF. Four Ospreys had been shot out from under them, and being shot down again wasn't all that scary to them…even though it was to be avoided.

"We're now ten miles out from LZ Alpha," Johns announced over the intercom. He pushed down on the stick and kept going down until he was skimming the treetops. It wasn't guaranteed to negate enemy search radar, but since the F-35s had started flying, the Euros had concentrated on the sky.

Back in the cabin, the Ghosts were jolted to awareness and made sure everything and everyone was where they were supposed to be. It was almost time, now.

Beep. An enemy search radar briefly swept over them. Johns went as low as he dared, jinking the aircraft randomly. He didn't want the Euros to find him, and they might now know that something was up. "Captain Diaz! Search radar might've gotten a piece of us! Can't tell for sure."

"Too late to turn back now," said Diaz. JSF Field Command had deemed this op important enough that they'd once again enlisted the help of the Marine Air Wing; eight F-35s were waiting off out of radar range of Le CEITO, two armed with four AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missiles each and the other six were armed with a full complement of Sidewinders and J-STRIKEs. They would protect the Goshawk from the Mirages and Eurofighters that were undoubtedly up there in case the mission went south.

"Now coming up on the LZ!" Johns put the Goshawk into hover mode. "Go go go!"

The bottom of the Goshawk opened up, and Alpha Squad rappelled down. As soon as all the Ghosts were on the ground, the Goshawk zoomed away. "Creeper Six, this is Joker. We're going to refuel. Radio in once you've completed the objective. Joker out."

000

In Le CEITO's operations center, the radar officer was puzzled. "I'm sure I got something," he said to his control officer. "But I couldn't reacquire it."

"Possibly American reconnaissance," said the senior officer. "He got spooked when you got him and fled with his tail between his legs. Probably a UAV."

"Shouldn't we send the fighters after it?"

"What for?" snorted the senior officer. "It didn't get close enough to get any useful intel on this base, and it went beyond radar coverage. I don't want our fighters to get shot by some damned Yankee Marine playing pilot just to shoot a stupid UAV." The one thing he really feared was the American Kinetic Rod satellites. But tonight there was ample cloud cover to defeat the satellite's cameras, and in any case the operations center was buried deep. Whether it was deep enough or not, he'd soon find out.

000

The sound of the V-25's propeller engines died away quickly. Webb didn't look. The time had long gone since the first time he'd disembarked from a helo and watched his last chance to turn back literally fly away. You could tell the experienced ones from the newbs that way; the latter always watched the helo until it went out of sight. Webb saw to his satisfaction that no one looked back.

Le CEITO at night looked like a small bastion of daylight; the whole compound was lit up. It made for poor infiltration conditions. To make matters worse, Webb could see, even at this distance, that the whole place had cameras everywhere.

Kilgore looked through his binoculars. The MB-12A Binocular System was a product of a joint venture between a private company and the military. The system had several modes, and one of them was able to calculate and display the visual capabilities of camera systems. "Overlapping fields of vision," Kilgore reported. "The MGs and look-out towers are positioned well, too. And that is one big-ass wall."

"Damn," Diaz remarked, looking for herself. This was a problem. The command building with the operations center was somewhere in there, and there was no way that they could lase the target, i.e., use a laser designator. Even if they could somehow get close enough and avoid all the guards and the security systems, they'd be too close when the rods would hit.

"Do we abort?" Webb asked. This was where he'd find out whether his CO was a good officer or a crazy one. There was no rule saying that either was wrong.

Diaz knew that Webb was testing her. "I'm contacting command. They need to know."

Webb raised an eyebrow. "We can do this, ma'am. It isn't impossible."

"I know, Master Chief," said Diaz. "But I don't want to lose any more men than I've already had, especially if you die in a mission that's impossible."

Webb realized that Captain Alicia Diaz had fallen into the trap of the good officer. She cared too much. Was that a bad thing? Webb wondered.

"Creeper Six to Blue Jay, come in."

"This is Blue Jay," Major Dennison replied.

Diaz outlined the problem. "Blue Jay, I do not believe we can pull this off without severe risk. Should we abort?"

000

Back in Arrabida, General Mitchell and Colonel Taylor frowned. "Creeper Six, stand by," Taylor said. He turned to Mitchell. "I'd pull them back, but something tells me you'll override that order, sir."

Mitchell nodded. "Intel strongly suggests that the base commander at Le CEITO is Colonel Antonio Maldini. He's part of the Enforcer Corps' officer varsity and the same man who beat Marcus at Copenhagen. If we can take him out, taking Le CEITO will me that much easier, and so will be taking Paris. The war will be over before Europe knows it, and then we'll concentrate on kicking some Russkie ass. But that will only happen as soon as we like if we take out Maldini."

Taylor wondered whether a set of general's stars had wiped out Mitchell's memory of the brass sending his team on suicide missions and his arguments with them. "I'm not prone to send my people on suicide runs, General Mitchell."

"Blue Jay, what's the hold-up?" Diaz sounded anxious.

"Stand by," said Mitchell. He fixed Taylor with a stare. "Do you trust Captain Diaz, Colonel?"

"Of course," said Taylor.

"Because I do. I trust her with my life. I trust that whatever her orders, she will bring her team out alive. So will you tell her to move on, or will I?"

Taylor sighed mentally. "I'll do it." He flicked the mike on again. "Creeper Six, this is Blue Jay. Proceed as planned."

"Sir?"

"Proceed as planned, Creeper Six! That's an order! Blue Jay out."

000

Diaz's face turned ugly for a split second. There was no point getting angry. She had her orders, and she'd carry them out. "We proceed as planned."

Webb grimaced. So much for a General who understands us, he thought.

Keynes was watching the gates of the compound through her sniper scope. Suddenly, she spotted a jeep. "Contact. Enemy FAV coming out of the west gate."

"Route the HUD feed to my helmet," Diaz ordered. She examined the face of the passenger in the light of the base. "Son of a bitch, that's him." She opened a com channel to command. "Blue Jay, this is Creeper Six. Positive identification of main target. Target is in a jeep, heading north-east. He'll be in sniper range in one minute."

000

Taylor could hardly believe it. This chance had surely been given by the Lord God Himself. Now he could take out the target, and his team wouldn't have to get close to Le CEITO's bristling defenses. He looked at Mitchell. "Once in a blue moon chance, sir," he said.

"I agree," said Mitchell, hiding his relief in a mask of calm. "Give the order."

"Yes sir. Creeper Six, this is Blue Jay. Take him out."

000

Diaz grinned. "Wilco. Creeper Six out." She looked at Keynes. "Take him out as soon as he's in range."

Keynes's only response was to unsafe her rifle. The M110 had a maximum range of 2.5 miles, and Maldini's jeep was well within that. But she waited for a clear shot first. Then she pulled the trigger.

000

Maldini was very appreciative of General de Bankole's efforts to get his family to see him. It was a touching gesture on the part of the General, one that Maldini knew would land him in debt with the man. It was going to be nice to see his daughter again—

Crack!

The sniper round pierced the side of the jeep and continued to smash into Maldini's shoulder. The pain was tremendous and he blacked out almost immediately. He didn't even have time to be surprised.

His driver and executive officer, Major Illaria Cimono, was stunned. Her colonel's blood had sprayed over her, and his shoulder was mutilated. Shocked into action, she turned the jeep around and raced back towards Le CEITO. The medics on base might be able to save him, she knew, if she could only get there in time. She also knew that there were enemy soldiers in close vicinity, and radioed that in as well.

000

"Nice shot," said Diaz. "Looks like you nearly blew his arm off." She winced as the base's alarms went off, wailing loudly. As she watched, a PAH-6 Cheetah gunship lifted off. "Time to move." She contacted the V-25 as they ran to the extraction point. "Joker, this is Creeper Six. We have been compromised. Moving towards extraction point now!"

Webb looked behind them. More gunships were lifting off, accompanied by Gadfly troop transport helos that searched the area with bright spotlights. Le CEITO's gates opened, and Badger IFVs spilled out. Time was running out.

000

"All squadrons, this is Blue Jay. Alpha Team has been compromised. Move in to protect Alpha and the Goshawk."

"Reaper Flight copies," said Crenshaw. He'd requested this assignment when he heard about it.

"Knight Flight copies," said Major Fred Phelps. He was the other squadron detailed for air-to-air combat. He had five F-35s with him, including his own. His duty was to protect the AWACS.

"Hammer Flight copies," said Captain Erin King. She and her wingmen were the ones in charge of smashing any enemy armor that threatened Alpha and Joker.

"Reaper Flight, this is Citadel. Enemy aircraft are closing on the Goshawk. Recommend you engage immediately."

"Copy, moving to engage."

This would be a lot more hectic than La Mancha, Crenshaw knew. This was close to Ramstein Air Base, and the Euros had more fuel and planes than the Americans. They could afford to put more fighters in the air, and longer. They had the upper hand here, and Crenshaw wasn't sure about his chances.

000

Captain Johns put the V-25 into hover mode. The night-vision setting on the windshield outlined the figures of Alpha Team, who were running for their lives. Just as they reached the clearing, an enemy FAV roared in from a different angle. Caught in the open, Alpha had no chance on their own…except that they weren't on their own.

Lt. Aramaki triggered the Goshawk's nose-mounted GAU-19, a tri-barreled 12.7mm Gatling gun, and fired at the FAV. The bullets penetrated the thin metal, slicing through the Euro soldiers' body armor.

While Aramaki hosed the FAV, crew chief Sgt. Willard dropped a rope down. Alpha Team immediately started climbing up. Diaz waited for all her team members to get on before she climbed aboard the Goshawk. As soon as her boots reached the deck of the tilt-rotor's cabin, Johns zoomed away, putting the V-25 into plane-mode.

"Let's get the hell out of Dodge," shouted Simmons.

"What the hell do think I'm doing, squid?" Johns shouted back. "Shut up and strap in. And for God's sake, don't shit yourself!"

The Goshawk flew as low as Johns dared, barely skimming over trees. A valley presented itself and Johns dove into it. Suddenly, his HUD blared a warning. "We've been locked on," said Aramaki. "Shit! They've fired a missile!"

"Going evasive," said Johns calmly. "Hope you didn't eat a big dinner, guys."

000

"Enemy aircraft are firing on the Goshawk!" Citadel was frantic.

Crenshaw didn't bother to acknowledge. Pulling in neatly behind the Mirage, Crenshaw selected guns and put a burst through his tail pipe. The Mirage pulled away flaming, lost control and crashed into the side of the valley. He watched as the V-25 popped flares. It worked, and the missile detonated harmlessly. "Damn, I'm low on fuel," he reported. "Citadel, we need more fighters up here."

"That's a negative, Reaper Lead. We'll vector in a tanker. Knight Flight will take over. Citadel out."

Crenshaw hoped the Marines were up to it, and wondered how long Citadel would last without an escort. This mission hadn't been planned thoroughly enough, and people were going to die because of that.

000

"Jesus Christ, that was close," said Simmons.

"Keep your pants on, squid," said Johns. "That's nothing." Johns put the V-25 through another series of maneuvers, mostly to evade the targeting systems of the Euro aircraft but also to shut the Ghost up. It was working, to a fashion. The Direct Action Penetrator variant of the Goshawk had a stealth coating that made it hard to detect and, once acquired, hard to lock on. But all the Euros had to do was fire a heat seeker which would home in on one of the two turboprop engines on the Goshawk and blow a wing off. Johns was trying to counter that by flying as low as possible, hoping that the steep angle at which any missile would then be fired would force said missile into the ground and not into his engines.

000

Major Cimono was back in Le CEITO's operations center. Colonel Maldini's blood still soaked her uniform, which evoked a few stares from the base personnel. "Status on the pursuit?"

"We've shot down two American fighters," said the op officer. "But we've lost five of our own. A Mirage nearly shot down the bastard carrying that damned American assassination team, but he failed and was shot down shortly thereafter." He paused. "They are nearing the edge of our effective combat range, Major."

"Ours, but not theirs," Cimono wondered. "Captain, for the Americans to be this far into our territory with fighters, they must have a tanker up there, along with an AWACS to coordinate the assault."

"The AWACS will be escorted, as will the tanker," the captain replied. "We're already having enough on our plate with those damned US Marines."

"Find that tanker, Captain," Cimono said, her tone making it clear that she didn't want excuses. "And the AWACS. Shoot them down, and then finish off the fighters."

The captain grew angry. "Damn it, don't you think we've been trying to do that?"

Cimono was about to rip the man a new one, when another officer said, "Major! Urgent message from Paris!"

Sparing the captain the evil eye, Cimono took the call. "Major Cimono," she said.

"Major, this is General Amadou de Bankole."

Cimono straightened. "Yes, General?"

"What is Colonel Maldini's condition?"

"He's still in shock," she replied. "He's lost a lot of blood, and the doctors say he may lose his left arm entirely. They're not entirely sure whether he will survive."

"And the attackers?"

"Exfiltrating on a Goshawk, escorted by several American fighters. We've shot down two fighters but lost five of our own."

"Call off the pursuit."

"Please repeat, Senor General?"

"Call off the pursuit!" the General snarled. "I will not risk any more fighters to kill a few American soldiers. We need to consolidate Le CEITO's defenses. In the Colonel's absence, you are in charge of the defense of Le CEITO. De Bankole out."

Cimono stared at the phone, then turned to the captain. "Call off the fighters, Captain. Orders from Paris," she explained, seeing the look on his face. "The Americans can have their small victory, but they will not have this base."

000

"General Mitchell?" The officer looked calm enough, which meant that he wasn't delivering bad news to Scott, who didn't react all that well to such news.

"Yes, lieutenant?"

"Alpha Team has exfiltrated successfully, sir. They report that the team sniper shot the target, but were unable to confirm his death. However, Captain Diaz witnessed the shot through the HUD cam and her opinion is that the extent of damage the round inflicted must be fatal."

"So, not a total success."

The lieutenant, a newbie out of West Point, mustered some courage. "Sir, the objective was to take the target out of action. Even if he survived, he'll be in the hospital for months. So it is a success."

Mitchell gave the lieutenant a look. "It is not a total success in my eyes until the target is as dead as King Tut. However, you're right. What's the casualty report?"

"Alpha Team is green, sir. Hammer Flight was shot down by Mirage fighters after they took out about eight IFVs and four tanks. Satellite footage of the wreckage indicates that Hammer Two, that is Lieutenant Ben Greer, may have survived. Nothing much is left of Hammer One, sir."

"Call Colonel Salvatore and tell him to prepare a rescue mission. We don't leave anyone behind, not even a jarhead flyboy."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and tell Colonel Taylor to extend my compliments to Captain Diaz and Alpha Team on a job well done."

"Yes sir." The lieutenant left, clearly relieved.

Mitchell smiled and turned to General Keating, sitting in the shadows of the room. "That kid might make a good officer one day."

"What makes you say that, Scott?" Keating asked.

"He has the balls to question a general's assessment and he only has one bar on his shoulder. And he's defending his fellow Ghosts."

Keating cocked his head quizzically. "He's not part of your outfit, is he?"

"He will be."

"You're promoting him pretty fast."

"Hmm," said Mitchell. "Sounds like some guy I know. Crazy army guy, belongs to some super-secret unit."

Keating laughed. "OK Mitchell, you've made your point." He sipped a flask of whiskey, technically contraband, but no one had the guts to say so. "So, the war's going well so far. We're near the end."

"Yeah," said Mitchell. "That's when some punk mercenaries show up."

"Mexico was different, Scott."

"Yeah. It wasn't as big." He looked at Keating. "Any word from that SAS team the Brits sent to Finland?"

"None." Keating looked worried. "Those men may just have the key to the biggest question we have now."

"Why did the war start." It wasn't a question. "The Euros shot down our shuttle, General. Plain and simple. Not to mention they financed the so-called Forgotten Army terrorists."

Keating shook his head. "Scott, I expected you, of all people, to think outside the goddamned box. The Euros didn't finance the FA."

"Third Echelon—"

"—found evidence that links Defense Minister Pulain funded the FA, yes. But the punks we killed in Florida were armed with Russian tech. T-72s, AK-47s, RPGs. Hell, the bastards even used Hinds. Then they try to confuse us by using civvy armored cars as IFVs, make it look like it was a rush job."

Mitchell leaned toward his old boss. "You're saying the Russians were behind it, like the Euros were saying?"

"I'm not making any promises until that SAS team gets back, but yes, that's what I believe. Look Scott, who profits most with a war between us and Europe?"

"Russia." That wasn't a question either. "That's why they supported us when President Becerra declared war on Europe. They jumped the gun, though. They got too greedy and couldn't wait, and attacked Europe way too early and we called bullshit. "

"Yep." Keating took a long swig. "But Europe is a buffer zone for them. We have to cut through the Federation to get to Russia, and they're banking on the fact that our forces will be exhausted."

"At which point they sweep us under the rug and win," said Mitchell. The thought of Russians on American soil made his blood boil. "If you're right General, then we're doing exactly what they want us to do."

00000


	6. Chapter 6: Back to the USA

Chapter 6: Back to the USA

President Becerra had just gotten permission from Congress to reinstate the draft for men between 18 and 25. Reservists and former military personnel had been recalled to active duty, and the National Guard was allowed to use martial law. The FBI was actively searching for foreign agents and cracking down on groups sympathetic to Europe, Russia and the Forgotten Army, and CIA was running operations in Europe and Russia at an unprecedented scale. Curfews were established in major cities, and most cities on the east coast were blacked out after ten, something that irritated the citizens. But Becerra had decided he could live with that. If he lost the war, low approval ratings would be the least of his problems.

"David?" The voice was soft and instantly recognizable.

"Jamie? What are you doing at this hour?"

The First Lady Of The United States replied, "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"You know what I'm doing," said Becerra. "I'm trying to not lose a war, and I'm also trying to not betray the trust of the citizens I swore to protect, and I'm trying to figure out if there is any way I could end this war without further bloodshed."

"You're doing the jobs of three people, David," Jamie Becerra said sternly. "You'll burn out."

Becerra looked out the window. "European Army troops could be seen from the roof of this building, Jamie. Half the city was on fire. Things weren't this bad since Artemis Corporation went rogue. Right now, in the eyes of the American people, I'm a failure."

"They can vote for someone else in two years. Right now, you are the President of the United States whether CNN and the ACLU likes it or not." A devout Catholic, Jamie was greatly angered towards the liberal stance on Christmas, didn't care for 'Happy Holidays' cards instead of proper 'Merry Christmas' ones, and was very vocal in her dislike of the far left. It didn't win her any points, and the most polite term used by the left to refer to her was 'that Latino bitch'.

Becerra sighed. "I know, I'm too self-deprecating. Maybe SecDef can handle this for a while."

"That's a good boy. Now, make the call and come to bed."

Becerra did just that. Within seconds, he'd collapsed on the bed and started sleeping before his head hit the pillow. The Secret Service agents were glad. Their job was to protect the President from anything and everything, and that sometimes included the duties of his office.

A few weeks ago, those threats included European Army troops and Enforcer Corps Kommandos. Twelve Secret Service agents had been killed protecting the President, leaving behind ten Kommandos and nine regulars dead. Usually defined by the business suits, dark sunglasses and earpieces, the Secret Service agents guarding the President and his family were now dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with XMX Assault Rifles. Marine Viper gunships patrolled the skies, on the lookout for remaining cells of Euro troops, and Marine and National Guard units patrolled the streets; no one had ever seen so many armed soldiers in the streets, let alone tanks and armored vehicles. America was on a war footing, and she was alert.

Her northern neighbor, Canada, was also on full alert. Its fighter force of aging-but-effective CF-18 Hornets and newer CF-35 Lightning IIs patrolled the skies, aided by NORAD. Canadian warships were on the lookout for Russian mobile sea bases in the North Atlantic. USAF and US Navy stations in Alaska fed information to their Canadian counterparts. Both the US and Canada expected that any attack would come from the Russian Northern Fleet. Neither expected an invasion.

Across the arctic, nearly a hundred Ilyshin cargo planes escorted by long-range MiG-37 Flatpack fighters carried a massive invasion force of Russian Army regulars and Spetsnaz Guards Brigade soldiers. Their target was Canada…and Canada was looking the wrong way.

000

In the JSF's forward operating base at La Mancha, General Scott Mitchell gazed from the ramparts of the castle that once was used by the Enforcer Corps in the same way the JSF was using it. Seeing Ghosts walking about in such large numbers stirred great pride in Mitchell. During his time with Ghost Recon, he'd never thought that the small, elite Army unit designated as D Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group would expand to become the Joint Strike Force. Before, if anyone had asked him whether he was a Ghost, he'd have replied that there was no such thing. Now Ghosts were proud to announce their membership in the elite community.

"I bet you want to be down there yourself, right?"

"You bet your ass, Marcus," said Scott, shaking hands with his old friend. Marcus Brown had been Mitchell's heavy machine gunner back when Mitchell had led Alpha Team, and it made perfect sense that the man was now a Colonel in charge of an armor battalion.

Brown's eyes swept across the landscape. "At least I helped win this one."

"Copenhagen wasn't your fault, Marcus," said Mitchell. "It was the damned brass. It was almost like they were trying to incite war with the Euros."

"How did they know?" Brown demanded. "The Euros, I mean. How did they know we were gonna grab Pulain? From what I saw, the op was airtight."

"An anonymous call was made to the Danish cops," said Mitchell. "Leastways, that's what Sam told me."

"Who?"

"Director Fisher. He's with the NSA. And I never told you that."

"Uh-huh," Brown said. His tone said it all: Third Echelon. "Means it's an inside job, then. Someone who helped plan the op also spilled his guts to the Euros."

"My thoughts exactly, at first," said Mitchell. "Problem is, that means we have a mole in the highest levels of government. And that's not good news, pal."

"Do they know who it is, yet?"

"CIA is looking for foreign connections, and the FBI is closing in. And, I'm helping them."

Brown was surprised. "What? What d'you mean?"

Mitchell sighed. "The assassination raid on Le CEITO? I planned it so that the same people who knew about the Copenhagen raid were also aware of the Le CEITO raid."

Brown raised an eyebrow. "That's weird, Scott. I thought you wouldn't put your fellow Ghosts in the dark like that."

Scott glared, and Brown backed off, remembering that his friend was also a three-star general. "I didn't want to, but I had no other choice. In any case, it worked out well. Not only did we remove a dangerous commander from the Euro roster, we also found that the mole isn't working for the Euros. If he did, an ambush would've been set up for Alicia."

Brown grew angry again. "You risked her life just to confirm a suspicion?"

"I didn't risk her life, Marcus. We have our own source in Paris. If they'd found out, the op wouldn't have been carried out. But they didn't."

Brown thought about it for a moment. "Russia."

"Damn right."

"That means that Russia is behind all of this," Brown said. "Holy Jesus."

"The General said you were a smart cookie," said a voice from the shadows. "He was right." A man of similar height and build to Mitchell emerged. He wore fatigues, but no rank or name, nor any other designation could be seen. He was bald as well, but that seemed to be a choice of his rather than age taking its toll. "I'm Sam Fisher, Director of Third Echelon."

"So it does exist," Brown said. "Now that I know, are you gonna pull out a neutralizer and wipe my memory?"

"God, I hated Men In Black. No, I'm not going to wipe your memory. I am, however, asking Mitchell to transfer you and your battalion to merry ol' England. You'll cross-train with the Brits until we have Le CEITO, then you'll be spearheading another assault on Normandy while your fellow colonels come up from the south. Your target is Paris, and we want it taken before the Euros."

"I can do that, no problem. But what about the Russian angle?"

"You remember Colonel Eddie Price, from the old Rainbow team? I convinced him and Mitchell here to send a few men to Finland. You see, a virus corrupted the programming of the satellite that shot down the Freedom Four. NSA traced it to Rovaneimi and determined that the virus went active around the time that a Forbidden Army attack was launched on the air base there. Now we're thinking that it wasn't Forbidden Army, but Russkies in disguise. But we can't confirm that."

"Why not?"

"The sub that's taking them back has to maneuver around Euro and Russian subs and ASW assets. The Navy says that it'll take them at least a month before they can get into safe waters. Until then, all this is conjecture. We're convinced, but it'll be tough to convince the Euros that we don't want to prolong the war. The only way to convince them is to take them by the scruff of their necks and scream at them."

Brown shook his head. "Goddamn it." He sighed heavily, then turned to Mitchell. "When do I move out?"

"Immediately," Mitchell replied. "Goshawks and Valkyries are waiting for your men and equipment. They'll take you to USS America and she'll take you to England. Good luck, Marcus. You're dismissed."

Fisher watched Brown leave. "I hope he knows that if the Euros decide to continue with their planned invasion of England, he'll be the first line of defense."

"Will they?"

"Most likely. Even though we're coming up from the south, they're still convinced that our main force is coming from the west. They want to preemptively neutralize that threat and take back those uplink sites at the same time." Fisher smiled. "Euros thinking about preemptive strikes. Now that's a surprise."

"Tell me about it." Mitchell scratched his head. "I find it strange that the Federation fucks up badly in the Balkans, but holds their own against us."

"They're trained to fight Russians, not guerrillas," said Fisher. "Leastways, that's what I heard. They fare better against a regular army. But we have something they don't."

Mitchell nodded. "Experience."

It was fact. The American military had seen several kinds of combat in its lifetime, from conventional warfare to counter-insurgency, especially with the wars in Afghanistan, Iraq and North Korea. Europe, already against US military interventions, had little or no involvement in those and other conflicts, choosing instead to send token peace-keeping forces that proved ineffective when challenged. While the US military and its British counterpart had fresh experience, the experience of the Federation's troops were limited to minor counter-terror operations and any experience that members of the now-defunct Rainbow team had managed to pass on.

An aide ran in. "Sir, priority message." He handed over a piece of paper to Mitchell and exited just as quickly.

Mitchell read through it. Fisher watched with interest as the man went pale with momentary anger and surprise. "What is it, General?"

Mitchell looked straight at Fisher. "The Russians have invaded Canada."

000

"When did the Russians start their invasion?" It was the first thing out of President Becerra's mouth before he even sat at the table in the Situation Room. Now wasn't the time for pleasantries.

"At approximately oh-four-hundred hours today morning, Mr. President," replied Lt. Gen. Sarah Walters, the senior Air Force officer present. "About four CFB Hornets made contact with a flight of MiG-37 Flatpacks above Ellesmere Island, forty miles south-west of Alert. Three Hornets and two MiGs were shot down, and the surviving Hornet made it back to base at CFB Cold Lake intact. CFS Alert confirmed multiple Russian air craft before stating that they were under attack by Russian paratroopers—most likely Spetsnaz soldiers. The base went dark shortly thereafter. Multiple reports indicate that Russian troops, supported by significant amounts of armor and aircraft, are well within Nunavut. Baker Lake has also gone dark. This is a blitzkrieg, Mr. President. The Canadians have been caught flat-footed."

"Not to mention us," Becerra observed. "How did we not see this coming?"

"We don't have any good sources in the Kremlin," said Director of Central Intelligence John Patrick Ryan Jr. "Not since our best source was killed in a 'car accident'." That had sent shockwaves through CIA.

"And it is exceedingly dangerous to get anything of value out of Russia for Third Echelon," said Director Sam Fisher, appearing from La Mancha via video conference. "The Russians are very paranoid, and they take espionage very seriously."

"I agree," said Deputy Director of Intelligence Dominic Caruso, the man in charge of the CIA's intel department. His brother Brian was Deputy Director of Operations. "Ever since Colonel Filitov, they've taken extra care." Colonel Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov, three times Hero of the Soviet Union, had been a CIA source code-named 'Cardinal', feeding information to the CIA for over thirty years before being caught. Filitov had been extracted from the Soviet Union by none other than the current DCI's father, who'd been an analyst at the time but managed to extract not only Cardinal, but planned the defection of then KGB Chairman Nikolay Borissovich Gerasimov and the chairman's family. The whole affair had been made public only when Jack Ryan Senior had been propelled to the Presidency, leaked to the media by a CIA officer who was identified and fired too late to stop the fallout. The leak became a minor embarrassment for CIA, but a huge one for the post-Soviet Russia, prompting the latter to totally reorganize their intelligence services. The recent CIA mole, Colonel Arkady Sergeyovich Golovko, had been killed in an apparent hit-and-run. No one at CIA doubted that he'd been killed by the SVR, the successor to the KGB. "I understand the Brits have a source in the Kremlin. They'll want something in return for allowing us to have access to the info he provides."

"No," Becerra said. "Cunningham is a pro-EF leader. How can we trust him?"

"Sir," Dominic said calmly but firmly, "this is not the time for politics. Cunningham has no choice but to trust us. Hell, he's allowing JSF units onto British soil, and he allowed us to know that he has an ear in Paris. Not to mention that op in Finland. I find it hard to believe that he would betray us to a nation that plans to invade him. If we'd had this source earlier, we might've been able to stop this Russian invasion."

"If they knew beforehand, why didn't they tell us?" Becerra pointed out.

"The intelligence business is almost like the old barter system," Ryan said. "That's how my dad explained it to me. They give to us and we give to them, or they'll never give to us again. They appreciate our sending the Ryan group, but they don't consider that an intelligence gift. It's more of a strategic gift to them. They'll want our sources in the Enforcer Corps' brass. It'll be invaluable in the defense of the Isles."

Becerra sighed. "There's no other way, is there? OK Ryan; you have my permission. Sarah, how do we respond to the Russian invasion?"

"The Canadian Forces have been very cooperative," said Walters. "I suggest that we send some of the best JSF units to Canada."

"What about the European Front?"

"It is stable, Mr. President. The Euros are either unwilling or unable to mount a full counter-attack, and in any case our forces are pretty well dug in. Regular forces will continue probing attacks and raids, but I want JSF units in Canada. The Canadians are good, but they've faced nothing like the Spetsnaz."

"Very well. Pick your favorites and tell General Mitchell to send them over. Can you do anything to help the Canadians while those JSF units are en route?"

"The Air Force is planning strikes on any airports in Nunavut that can possibly be used by the Russians. I want HAWX Squadron over here, of course. The Army is moving troops to the border, and the Marines have beefed up security at Grissom Air Base. The Navy is searching with our Canadian counterparts for any sign of the Russian super-carrier Myonosk; the Myonosk carries a significant amount of firepower and poses a great threat to Newfoundland, not to mention our own east coast. Also sir, I suggest that you activate our reserves in case the Russians try to invade us."

"Done," said Becerra. "If Canada falls, the Russians will have a straight shot into the northern US. I'd rather avoid using KR strikes on Canadian soil, so finish this in a conventional manner if at all possible."

"Sir," said General Mitchell, "as you know, while you may have direct control over our nuclear arsenal, the JSF has control over the use of the Kinetic Strike satellites."

"I understand that, Mitchell," said Becerra, "but we have a limited supply of rods, and delivering new ones to the satellites is becoming very dangerous."

"Then I suggest that the Air Force amps up the pressure on the Euro satellites, sir."

"We don't have all that many Mamba missiles left," said Walters, referring to the ASM-200 Anti-Satellite Missile. Launched from high-flying F-15A Eagle fighters, the ASM-200 destroyed target satellites using kinetic energy. So far, only twenty had been produced under the administration of President Ballantine of which one was stolen and used by the Artemis Corporation, and production of more under the Becerra Administration had yielded only ten more, of which seven had already been used. Poetically, the first enemy satellite to be shot down was EF-01932, the satellite that had shot down the Freedom Four. Two other laser satellites and four Russian RORSATs (Radar Ocean Reconnaissance Satellites) had been shot down as well. The space war had gone very well indeed; all enemy attempts to destroy the Freedom Star and its arsenal of Kinetic Rods had been foiled by the station's defenses.

"Use them all," said Mitchell. "The less satellites the Euros have, the better."

"They're expensive, Mitchell."

"So are soldiers' lives, Walters."

Walters turned to Becerra for help. The President paused, and then said: "I'll authorize a limited use of the Mambas. Euro satellites floating over our territory are fair game."

"Understood, sir," replied the two senior officers. The Commander In Chief had spoken.

"Gentlemen," the President said loudly, "the last time an enemy force landed on US soil, ten thousand people died and half of this city was leveled. I will not allow that to happen again. That means you will do everything in your power to ensure that not a single millimeter of US soil is ceded to the Russians. Otherwise I may have to resort to nuclear weapons, and that is something I cannot do without killing many innocent Americans and Canadians. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. President," replied all the military personnel.

"Good. You're dismissed."

000

"We're going back home?" said Simmons. "Awesome." They'd just received word from the pilot of the C-130 Hercules which was taking them back.

"We're going to the USS Ronald Reagan in New York," said Webb. "And from there we're going to Canada. Sorry Gerry. You won't be seeing your girlfriend anytime soon."

The word had come through. The 35th was being transferred to the North American Front, to be joined by the 13th. The 101st Airborne Division, back to being part of the Army and not the JSF, was replacing the 35th. The good part was that the European fighting capability in Iberia had been reduced enough that the enemy was still licking its wounds. Intel had reported that Colonel Maldini had been hospitalized in critical condition, but no mention was made of who his replacement would be. Rumors had it that Colonel Alexei Matz, another one of the Enforcer Corps' best, would be the man to replace Maldini, but intel put him squarely on the Eastern European Front, combating the Russians.

"Does this mean that the Russians could be landing in Alaska?" asked Keynes. A native of Anchorage, Keynes had family there.

"Who cares about Alaska?" said Simmons, earning him a vicious punch in the shoulder.

"As much as I hate to say it Debbie," said Burke, "Alaska isn't strategically important to the Russians right now. They'll probably try to go for DC through New York first."

"Sucks to be New York, then," said Kowalski, a Boston man.

"I hope you get nuked, sunshine," said Simmons, a born New Yorker. "Metaphorically of course. Yankees are tearing shit up this season." He winced and rubbed his shoulder, Keynes's punch still stinging.

Harris turned to Webb as Kowalski and Simmons began arguing. "Isn't your ex stationed on the Reagan?"

Webb grimaced. "Number three. Yeah, she is."

"The one who chucked a frying pan at you?"

"No, that was number two. Elaine tried to take my head off with a baseball bat."

"Oh right." Harris had known Webb for a long time, and had watched the former SEAL go through three divorces, and more than twice as many girlfriends. "What did number one do again?"

"Emptied the fucking house when I was deployed to Mexico. Even took the damn welcome mat."

"Oh, yeah. That was the time you crashed at my place."

Webb laughed. "Your wife was pissed."

"Threatened to leave me," Harris said, grinning. "Well, she did. We share custody of Sarah. I see her during the summer."

Webb was quiet. Having never managed to have kids, he didn't know what it was like to be a father. "Make sure Elaine doesn't shoot me, will you?" he said finally.

"I'll try my best," said Harris, "but those Navy chicks can be unpredictable."

"Don't I know it."

000

On board the super-carrier Myonosk, the pride of the Russian Navy, Captain Igor Sergeyev of Wolf Company, 13th Airborne Battalion, Spetsnaz Guards Brigade, examined his men. Armed with AK-74 assault rifles, Dragunov sniper rifles and OSV-120 .50cal sniper rifles, Spetsnaz Wolves, as the riflemen of the Spetsnaz were known, were very well trained, tenacious and fierce fighters, able and willing to take on any mission, not matter how hard. This mission was no different.

To Sergeyev's experienced mind, assaulting the USS Ronald Reagan while it was being refurbished in one of New York City's many harbors was just a hint away from a suicide mission, but that made no difference at all to the SGB, and less so for the 13th Airborne. What each man and woman in the 13th really wanted was to go against their American counterparts, the 13th Airborne Battalion of the United States Joint Strike Force…or better yet, the more famous 35th Airborne, just to show with airborne battalion was boss. But, as always, the soldiers of the SGB obeyed all orders to the letter. And they knew that taking on the Reagan's small Marine contingent would be easy. The trick was to avoid engaging the numerically superior forces of the New York State National Guard, which was actively patrolling New York City's harbors, and to avoid alerting the Reagan's own force of F-35 fighters. That didn't include the new Air Force base in Albany, finished only two years prior, that held several F-22s, F-15s and F-35s, as well as A-10C Thunderbolts (AKA Warthogs)and A-20 Razorbacks, both highly effective ground-attack fighters. To combat this dizzying array of aircraft, the Russian Navy had the Su-33 Flanker-D fighter and the older Su-25 Frogfoot strike fighter, neither of which held a candle to the USAF's and the US Navy's aircraft. But they were simply distractions, while the main task would be carried out by the Spetsnaz.

"Captain!" shouted the pilot of the Mi-55 Locust helicopter that would take him to the Reagan. "It is time."

"Indeed," said Sergeyev. "Let us hope the Navy does its work."

000

Crenshaw smiled as he ran his hand across the controls of the F-22B Raptor. Having been deposited in Albany's Farmer AFB, he'd immediately gravitated towards the Raptor. It was his favorite fighter, and he firmly believed that it had no equal anywhere in the world. "What are our orders, Citadel?" he asked, flying with his squadron at ten thousand feet.

"The USS Ronald Reagan is set to depart in twenty-four hours. Intel gathered by the NSA suggests that the Russkies might want to hit her before she sails. You will coordinate with the Reagan's F-35 squadron and protect the carrier at all costs. Understood?"

"Roger, Citadel."

000

"Farmer AFB is crowded, which is why you and your men will be staying overnight on the Reagan," Captain David Pike said to Colonel Jerome Taylor. "Tomorrow you'll get the hell off my ship and make for Farmer, from where you'll go to help out the Canadians. Happy?"

"Very." Taylor had hated ships, being easily susceptible to sea-sickness. Even being on a docked ship made him feel nauseous, which was why he was sleeping in the National Guard barracks, just off the docks. "The Navy really thinks that the Russians want to hit the Reagan? It'd seem smarter for their carriers to be escorting an invasion force meant for Canada; hit 'em from the East and the North and crush them."

"And the Reagan poses a serious threat to them if that's their plan," said Pike. "Which is why invading Canada or upstate New York or Vermont from the sea will be easier with us out of the way. Mark my words, they'll come after us. Probably using strike fighters to hit our decks, make us incapable of launching aircraft."

"That's what you'd do?"

"Yeah. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" repeated Taylor. "It doesn't matter what I think. The Russians think differently. I honestly have no idea how they'll play it. One thing's for sure: we have to be prepared for anything."

00000


End file.
